


By Any Other Name

by sysrae



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Anal Sex, Angst, Bisexual Derek Hale, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Cuddling & Snuggling, Derek is a closet geek, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erica takes none of Derek's shit, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Danny Mahealani/Stiles Stilinski, Past Domestic Violence, Past Stiles Stilinski/Jackson Whittemore, Promiscuous Derek Hale, Promiscuous Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Has Nightmares, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Versatile Derek Hale, Versatile Stiles Stilinski, boys with complicated emotional histories and bad coping mechanisms, drug overdose, stiles and lydia are bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-03-22 06:16:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3718228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is kinda slutty. So is Derek.<br/>Then they meet at a party, and Feelings ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'Stiles,' says Scott, sounding slightly pained, 'we really need to talk.'

'We really don't,' says Stiles, the words muffled by the wadded-up shirt he's using as a pillow. 'I'm fine.'

'Dude. You're the opposite of fine.'

'Says you.'

'No,' says Scott, with exasperated patience, 'says the _two random guys_ who just high-fived me on their way out the door, and the fact that you apparently didn't even make it to the bedroom last night. I mean, come on!' He hunkers down, gently poking one of the larger marks adorning Stiles's torso. It's either a sex bruise or a hickey, or possibly a combination of both, but either way, it's decidedly tender. 'There's no way this is healthy.'

'I'm very healthy,' Stiles mumbles, shifting away from Scott's touch. 'Sex is healthy. Lots of sex is the healthiest.'

'Only if you're enjoying it, Stiles.'

Stiles lifts his head at that, blinking blearily through his hangover. 'You think I'm not?'

Scott looks genuinely worried. 'Well, are you?'

Briefly, Stiles considers telling him the truth: that there are levels to his enjoyment of the massive amount of sex he's currently having, and while he's loving it physically, there's an ongoing sense of deficiency on the emotional end of things. But that would just invite a conversation about Danny and Jackson, aka They Who Shall Not Be Named, and even months after that particular clusterfuck of a situation “resolved” itself – airquotes fully intentional – he'd still rather jump off a bridge than tell Scott even a third of the gory details.

Instead, Stiles forces a shit-eating grin, wriggling so as to imply that the threadbare towel he's using as a blanket is somehow a Towel of Victory, and props his chin on a palm. 'Scotty,' he says, with absolute sincerity, 'I'm having the time of my life. Now be my bestest bro and get me a couple of Tylenol, wouldja?'

Scott groans and straightens, heading into the kitchen. 'You'd better disinfect that couch,' he mutters, filling a mug with water.

'Will do, buddy!'

'I mean it, Stiles! I don't wanna come home and accidentally sit in some dude's jizz.'

'On my honour as a Stilinski,' says Stiles, making grabby hands at the water and painkillers, 'I solemnly swear I will disinfect the couch.'

Scott hands over the pills, but holds the water out of reach. 'Just swear to me you're at least being safe.'

'Jesus, Scott, I'm not a complete idiot.' Stiles stretches enough to get a hold of the water, downing the Tylenol with a greedy swallow. 'No glove, no love. My body is a temple.'

'Your temple looks like shit,' says Scott, but wryly enough to pass as mollified. 'Look, I gotta get to class, but we're still on for lunch, right?'

'Always,' says Stiles, and earns himself a beaming grin from Scott.

'Later, dude.'

'Later.'

As Scott exits the apartment, Stiles gives a tentative stretch, wincing at the all-over feeling of soreness. Last night was definitely something to check off his bucket list, but as strenuously enjoyable as the main act was, sleeping on the floor afterwards was a dumb idea. Once Seth and Kyle passed out on the couch, he should have moved to his bed, but he'd been just drunk enough to think the floor was comfy, and besides, it would've felt like a dick move to let the others stay on the couch without inviting them in, which... he hadn't wanted to do. Not because there was any chance of them thinking it might mean something – they'd picked each other up on the dancefloor after minimal conversation and maximum threeway grinding, which was as sexually expedient as it was unromantic – but because Stiles is strangely protective of his personal space, these days. Given the choice, he much prefers the walk of shame to bringing dudes home with him, and he only broke his rule last night because Seth and Kyle both had loitering roommates, while Scott was out with Allison.

Still. It was totally worth it.

Mostly.

Groaning only a little, Stiles peels himself off the floor and goes to get the Lysol out of the cupboard, absently humming _Friday I'm In Love_ until he realises what song it is, and switches to the _Star Wars_ theme.

 

*

 

'Really, Derek? _Again?_ '

'Only god will judge me,' says Derek, smirking as the guy whose name he doesn't remember blows him a kiss and slips out the front door.

Erica rolls her eyes and smacks him lightly upside the head with a rolled-up newspaper she keeps on the kitchen island for just that purpose. 'Yeah, well, if the fervency of last night's prayers is anything to go by, I'm sure He'll rate you ten out of ten for enthusiasm.'

Derek has the good grace to look mildly repentant. 'Sorry. We didn't mean to be loud.'

'The hell you didn't,' Erica mutters, helping herself to Derek's coffee. 'You're lucky I'm already kinky, Hale. Your sexcapades would've warped me otherwise.'

'Says the woman who owns a novelty singing vibrator.'

'Yeah, because _you bought it for me_ , you fucking pervert!'

'As a gag gift! You're the one who kept it.' He grinned. ' _And_ used it.'

'Oh, shut up. It's nicely shaped.'

Derek feigns solemnity. 'Only god will judge you, Erica.'

Ducking her retaliatory swipe with the newspaper, he chuckles and grabs a conference pear from the fruit bowl, prompting his housemate to flip her hair in disgust.

'I swear to god,' she says, 'I'm living with the second sluttiest guy on campus.'

Derek raises an eyebrow. ' _Second_ sluttiest?'

'You were first,' says Erica, 'but Stilinski picked up not one, but _two_ Anthropology majors at the humanities mixer last night, and word on the grapevine is he banged them both, or that they both banged him. The details are fuzzy. Whatever.' She waves a hand. 'Consider your crown usurped.'

It probably says something about Derek's life these days that he's actually perturbed by this development. 'Stilinski,' he says, trying and failing to conjure a face that fits the name. 'He's your Lit major friend, right? The one who knows Allison?'

'That's Stiles,' says Erica, sipping her stolen coffee. 'You guys haven't actually met yet, which I know for a fact, because the universe hasn't exploded.'

'Maybe it has,' says Derek, slyly, 'and it's just been instantly replaced with something even more bizarrely inexplicable.'

'Was that a reference to something?' Erica asks, knowing full well how her geeky ignorance grates him. She smiles a smile of petty vengeance. 'That was probably a reference to something.'

' _The Hitchhiker's Guide_ ,' says Derek, trying not to sound sulky. 'Philistine.'

' _Ugh_ , you're such a closet dork. You need to get over this promiscuity trip already and settle down with some sappy nerd who'll hold your hand in that Firebug movie –'

' _Firefly_ ,' Derek grits out. 'The show is called _Firefly_ , the film is _Serenity_ –'

'– oh my fucking god, I do not _care_!' says Erica, slamming her empty mug on the bench. Her sudden change in tone takes Derek aback; she's actually angry, glaring at him like he's personally responsible for the cancellation of _In The Flesh_. Not that Erica even watches that stuff, but it was a really good show and Derek's still bitter that there won't be a third season, so really –

'You've given up!' says Erica, vehemently enough that Derek chokes on his pear. 'You've given up on dating, and I totally get you needing to reclaim your sexual identity or sow your wild oats or whatever the fuck this started as, but would it kill you to look for something other than one night stands, too? Because this, who you're turning into?' She gestures at him, jacket to jeans, as though his clothing choices are somehow representative of a larger point. 'It's not you, okay?'

'Meaning?' says Derek, bristling at the implication.

' _Meaning_ ,' snaps Erica, stalking out from behind the island, arms crossed under her cleavage, 'that once upon a time, you took offence when people prejudged your intelligence because of the whole leather-clad gym-junkie thing, and now it's all you ever let anyone see. You deliberately preclude the possibility of sex developing into something more by screwing people you'd never want to see again in a fit, but I _know_ you, Derek, and what you are is a goddamn dorkhearted puppy who likes marathoning fantasy dramas in that stupid Doctor Who dressing-gown you think I don't know about, and holy judgement or not, _you don't have to do it alone_.'

She sucks in breath, cheeks flaming – and Derek, for the first time that morning, is rendered utterly speechless. More quietly, Erica says, 'You don't have to be alone, Derek. I know Jen screwed you over, but that doesn't mean –'

' _Fuck_ you,' he snarls, grabbing his bag. 'You don't get to lecture me, Erica. You've got no idea what the fuck you're talking about, okay?'

He shoves past her, hand on the door before she can even muster a response. 'Derek, wait –'

He doesn't.

 

*

 

Stiles is having a shitty day.

Which is stupid; he spent last night fucking and sucking two highly attractive men, neither of whom was exactly unskilled, and so what if people are gossiping? They always do, and it's not like he's trying to keep his sluttiness on the downlow, but try as he might, he hasn't been able to put Scott's concern for his wellbeing and the kernel of truth behind it out of mind, and the more he thinks about Seth and Kyle in the context of Stiles post-Danny-and-Jackson, the more he starts to worry he's done something to be ashamed of. God, and not at all because he had a threesome; because he had one with a couple of dudes who bear more than a passing resemblance to his two most significant exes; exes who are now, in point of fact, engaged to each other, seeing as how it turned out that Danny really could forgive Jackson anything –

'Goddamit,' Stiles says, and sits right down on the library steps, a spraddle of angry limbs. 'God-fucking-dammit.'

He's been there for fifteen minutes, sitting in self-reproving silence, when someone nudges him in the ribs with the tip of a very expensive shoe.

'What's up, buttercup?' says Lydia, head tilted coyly onside. 'Aren't you usually happier after sex?'

'I'm plenty happy,' says Stiles, then promptly sighs, because lying to Lydia is only slightly less stupid than jaywalking drunk on a busy road. 'I just... I realised, when I woke up, that Seth and Kyle look a lot like Jackson and Danny, and it's kind of an epic mindfuck, you know?'

Instantly, Lydia's sceptical expression melts into something softer. 'Oh, sweetie,' she says, and sits down next to him, smoothing her skirt out under her thighs as Stiles puts his head on her shoulder. They share a quiet moment, Stiles inhaling the crisp, familiar, apples-and-roses scent of her perfume as Lydia curls her manicured nails against his neck.

'Did you do it on purpose?' she asks, and Stiles was drunk enough last night that he really has to think about it.

'No,' he says at last. 'I mean, not consciously, anyway, but part of me must've done, because it's a hell of a coincidence otherwise.' He tries for laughter, and it comes out thin. 'I didn't think I was quite that damaged, but hey! I guess I'm full of surprises.'

'You're not damaged, Stiles,' Lydia says. Her voice is sharp, but the squeeze she gives his neck is gentle. 'You're definitely surprising, though.'

'Good surprising or bad surprising?'

She feigns consideration. 'A little of both,' she says. 'Mostly, you're just annoying.'

Stiles smiles – genuinely, this time. 'Shut up, you love it.'

'Lies,' says Lydia, stretching like a cat. Stiles lifts his head, and in return, she kisses his cheek. 'Now, do I have to drag you to lunch, or are you going to sit here and mope like a puppy?'

'Lunch, please,' says Stiles, and when Lydia stands, he holds up his hands and lets her haul him to his feet.

'That's better,' she says, and promptly sets off down the stairs, her high heels clicking on the concrete.

Stiles follows, feeling mildly cheered. The days of his epic high school crush on Lydia Martin have long since passed, transmuting via the alchemies of shared betrayal, secret bitching and mutual interests into a friendship which, somewhat shockingly, is damn near as solid as what he has with Scott. In fact, given that Lydia is the only person to whom he's told the whole truth about Danny and Jackson, there's an argument to be made that she's as much his sister as Scott is his brother – which is kinda weird, given the whole 'we slept together to commemorate getting screwed over by the same douchebag ex and then bonded about our sexual incompatibilities' thing.

(Somewhat unsurprisingly, it turns out Lydia is _particular_ in bed, and while Stiles is hardly opposed to taking direction, the first time she snarked and he sassed back, they both dissolved into helpless laughter, gave up the sex as a bad idea and spent the rest of the night platonically cuddling in their pyjamas, eating caramel popcorn and bitching out Jackson while _The Notebook_ played in the background. Also, they're both blanket hogs, and everyone knows there's a limit of one per couple.)

The point being, Lydia _knows_ Stiles, and as little as they've actually _said_ , a wealth of information has nonetheless been _conveyed_. Bottom line: if Lydia doesn't think that Stiles screwed up, he hasn't screwed up, and as much as he regrets certain of his life choices, trusting her judgement – and by extension, himself – isn't one of them.

'So,' he says, catching her up, 'we still on for this evening?'

Lydia makes a face. 'Please. Like I'd ever cancel a party?'

'True. You need me to bring anything?'

'Ice,' says Lydia. 'You can never have too much ice.'

'Ice it is, then.'

'Good. And Stiles?'

'Yeah?'

'In the not unlikely event of you getting laid, please have the common courtesy not to do it in my house, and especially not my bed.' She gives him a pointed look. 'Again.'

Stiles winces, lips twitching in guilty amusement. 'You, uh. You knew about that, huh?'

'Please. You and Ethan stunk up those sheets so much, I threw them out.'

'Seriously?'

Lydia grins. 'They were getting old anyway.'

'And if I don't get laid tonight?'

'Then you don't get laid.'

Stiles snorts, thumbing angrily at his opposite wrist. 'What, and let down Team Slut? We can't have that.'

Lydia comes to an abrupt halt, her strawberry curls swinging with the loss in momentum. She fixes him with a stare. 'Stiles. You remember that talk we had a while back, about how it's completely okay for you to self-identify as a slut, but only if you don't think that's a bad thing? I mean, I'm all for promoting a destigmatised, unisex usage of a traditionally gendered insult, but there are lots of valid reasons for _not_ using it, either, and if thinking of yourself that way is starting to dictate your behaviour instead of just describing it, then that's probably not a good thing.'

Stiles's jaw drops slightly. 'It was just a joke, Lyds.'

She glares at him, one eyebrow raised, and lets the silence incriminate him like gunpowder residue.

' _Ugh,_ ' says Stiles, throwing up his hands. 'Fine, okay! Whatever! Hi, I'm Stiles Stilinski, I have intimacy issues and I frequently mask my pain with inappropriate humour, Jesus _Christ_ , would you stop looking at me like that?'

'Like what?' says Lydia, the innocence in her voice belied by the strafing line of her lips.

'Like I just pissed in your favourite Manolos – ow!' This last as Lydia flicks his nose. 'Hey!'

'Snap out of it,' says Lydia, sternly. 'How much you sleep around – or don't – is nobody else's business. It doesn't define you as a person, it doesn't make you one thing or another, and it doesn't mean you have to keep up a batting average in order to still be you. So here's what's going to happen.' She crosses her arms. 'We're going to go to lunch, and you're going to listen to Scott rhapsodise about Allison because I refuse to suffer alone, and then, tonight, you're coming over to my place to celebrate the fact that it's Friday. You will arrive wearing your _nice_ jeans, the ones I helped you buy, paired with a shirt that is neither plaid nor associated with any sort of cartoon character, and carrying a bag of ice. You _will_ enjoy yourself, and in the event that said enjoyment incorporates a sexual liaison with one or more partygoers, you _will not_ fuck them on my premises, but will chivalrously escort them elsewhere. Understood?'

'Understood,' says Stiles, and Lydia smiles like a Disney princess, patting him on the cheek.

'Good boy. Now quit moping and walk. I crave raspberry froyo.'

And really, who could argue with that?

 

*

 

Derek slams through the day like it's a series of doors that won't stay shut. He tells himself he's angry because Erica crossed a line, that she's got no business bringing up Jen the way she did, but really, he's angry that she was right: he _has_ given up, and the fact that doing so was absolutely a rational, justified decision on his part doesn't lessen the sting. If someone existed who actually wanted _him_ , with all his emotional baggage and apparently irreconcilable interests – someone whose first thought on meeting him wasn't _pretty dumb power top_ , and who didn't subsequently look at him like he was a sideshow freak for mentioning poetry, _Princess Mononoke_ and paragliding in a single conversation – then yeah, sure, he might be tempted to change his mind, but right now –

Right now, he just doesn't have the energy to keep asserting himself in the face of endless expectations that he be someone else. It's easier to conform to stereotype: to smile prettily and play dumb and top for whoever wants it, which most people do, and inasmuch as it's enthusiastic sex with willing partners, it's not exactly a hardship, but still.

Still.

'You coming out tonight?' asks Boyd, over lunch.

'Yes,' says Derek, taking a savage bite of his burrito. He's well aware of his penchant for eating angry, like his food has personally wronged him, and while he usually tries to tamp it down in public, currently he doesn't give a shit. 'Party, right?'

Boyd nods. 'A friend of Erica's friends. Come one, come all.'

'Good.'

They go back to eating in silence, and while Boyd shoots him the odd meaningful look, he doesn't judge, and he doesn't speak. Which is, in Derek's view, one of Boyd's greatest strengths: his selective taciturnity. He loves that he can snark and joke with Erica, but sometimes, he just needs company without the burden of conversation, and Boyd always seems to know when. It's one of the reasons he and Erica suit so well as couple, opposites who attract in all the right ways, and just for a moment, Derek is so bitter he almost chokes, because he's not even thirty yet and he's already fucking ruined for anything like what his best friends have, and all because he's got terrible taste in partners.

That's the real truth, and the reason he's still seething all these hours later: Derek's given up, not because he doesn't believe there are good people out there, but because he has zero faith in his ability to pick them. Nobody forced him to date Kate or Duke or Jennifer, and if good taste was something he could learn through failure, he'd be a master of it by now. But seeing as how he's apparently doomed to make terrible choices, it feels like an act of self-preservation – of self-affirmation, even – to adopt a policy of making them on purpose, instead of getting his hopes and heart perpetually dashed and broken.

'Erica's sleeping over tonight,' says Boyd, in a tone so utterly unaffected, he could be discussing the weather. 'Just so you know.'

'Thanks,' says Derek, equally bland.

Boyd favours him with one of his more eloquent Looks. 'You upset her this morning,' he says. 'But I think she upset you more.'

Derek says nothing to this; there's no response required.

Boyd dips a potato wedge in sweet chilli sauce, chews it meditatively, and speaks again. 'She'll get over it, though, if you will.'

'I will,' said Derek, then promptly corrects himself, because they're both politely pretending he's fine. 'Am, I mean. Am over it.'

'Thought so,' says Boyd. 'You want a lift to the party?'

'Sure.'

'Cool, then. We'll pick you up at eight.'

'Cool,' says Derek.

Almost imperceptibly, Boyd sighs.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles rings the bell to Lydia's house at exactly 8.09pm, a perspiring bag of ice balanced precariously on his left hip. Lydia opens the door with a flourish, looking him critically up and down.

'You're late. And what did I say about your choice of shirts?'

'That I shouldn't wear anything to do with cartoons,' says Stiles, cheerfully unrepentant as he crosses the threshold. 'And I haven't. This one is a Doctor Who reference.'

The shirt in question is a fitted blue tee with DALEKTABLE written across it in big, black letters, the serifs styled to look like plunger-manipulator arms.

Lydia purses her lips. 'It sometimes amazes me that you have an active sex life.'

'What, are you kidding? I'm adorkable! Now, where do you want the ice?'

'In the tub,' says Lydia, waving him towards the downstairs bathroom. And then, muttering, 'Maybe I'll dump you in there and carve out your kidney.'

'I heard that!' Stiles calls over his shoulder.

The tub in question is full of ice, to which Stiles adds his bag, and also beer, to which he helps himself. Knowing Lydia, there's still a keg elsewhere, but in true Stilinski fashion, he'd prefer to drink the good stuff while he's still sober enough to appreciate the difference.

Predictably, Scott and Allison are already in the kitchen, the latter perched on a stool with the former's arms looped around her shoulders. They both look up and smile as Stiles enters – Allison chinks her beer with his, while Scott defaults to a manly nod – and just like that, it's game on, Friday night style. People start arriving in groups pretty soon after that, and by nine, the house is packed – which, given the size of the place, is no mean feat. Thanks to her vast resource of parental riches, Lydia is the only person Stiles knows who actually lives in a house _she owns_ , unburdened by either roommates or landlords. Apparently, her dad bought the place years ago as an investment property and gifted it to her on her twenty-first birthday, the better to compensate for a decade or so of emotional neglect, and whatever Lydia might feel privately about the dynamics of that trade, there's no denying it's working for her now.

For that matter, it's also working for Stiles, who's onto his fourth imported beer and contemplating a fifth. He tips his head back, draining the bottle, and gives a satisfied sigh. He glances around the room, trying to remember the quickest route to the bathroom, then does a double-take and stops, staring, when he realises the insanely hot guy leaning up against the wall is blatantly checking him out. Stiles's mouth opens a little, because _goddamn_ : the guy is properly cut, with short black hair and perfect permastubble darkening his high, sharp cheeks. He looks vaguely bored, but he smirks a little when he notices Stiles noticing him back, and lifts his own beer in mocking salute – and that's when Stiles's eyes bug out, because _holy shit_ , is that what he thinks it is?

' _Dude_ ,' he says, launching himself across the room and lifting Hot Guy's wrist, the better to examine the thin silver bracelet he's wearing. 'You have _Legend of Zelda_ charms? That's awesome!'

'I – yes?' says Hot Guy, his brows drawn together in clear confusion. He has stupidly beautiful eyes, a startling heterochromic mix of blues and greens and golds, and they widen slightly as he takes in Stiles's shirt, whose significance he'd seemingly missed before. 'You like Doctor Who?'

He says it so tentatively, Stiles can't help but grin. Diagnosis: secret geek so used to operating on stealth mode that he's halfway to unlearning the language of his people.

'Well,' he drawls, 'it's kind of a big question, you know? I mean, Davies-Tennant era, fuck yeah – not that I'm dissing Nine, mind you, Eccleston never gets his props, but there was a lot of weird shit there, too, like fat farting aliens? I mean, come _on_ – but Moffat? He has his moments, but the rest of the time, I could strangle him so hard, and classic era is like, a big mixed bag of awesomesauce and total whatthefuckery. But yeah, on balance, as a collective thing, I like Doctor Who.' He smiles his biggest, four-beers-and-flirting smile. 'Do you?'

Hot Guy looks – there's no other word for it – stunned. He's staring at Stiles like he's never actually met another human being before, and when he finally answers, there's a note in his voice like he's worried he's being punked. 'I really liked Eccleston,' he says, carefully. 'But Tom Baker and K9 were always my favourites.'

'Baker is amazing,' Stiles agrees. 'I went through a whole phase of carrying jelly babies around with me and offering them to people when I was twelve.'

Hot Guy doesn't laugh, but his lips twitch like he wants to. 'I made a scarf,' he admits, the words coming out in a rush. 'I actually – I learned how to knit and everything, and then I was too shy to wear it, because my sister said it made me look like a grumpy turtle.'

Stiles is impressed despite himself. 'Dude, you can actually _knit_?'

'I made one scarf,' says Hot Guy, dryly. 'I'm not sure that counts.'

'It totally counts,' says Stiles. 'But, wait, no, I'm getting distracted – where did you get the Zelda stuff, man?' And he lifts up the bracelet again, reverently touching the small metal charms. 'Seriously, are these custom made or something? They're amazing!'

'My other sister has an Etsy store,' says Hot Guy. 'She made it for me a few years ago. For Christmas. We, uh. We used to play a lot of Zelda, when we both still lived at home. It's sort of an in-joke.'

Stiles can feel his eyes lighting up. 'Does she still sell them? Sell other stuff like this, I mean – like, geeky charms? Because if so, I am absolutely going to need a store address, dude. Nerd jewellery is my catnip.'

Hot Guy really smiles at that, a beaming expression that transforms his already gorgeous face from Broodingly Hot to I Would Die On A Battlefield And Launch A Thousand Ships For You, which is so distracting, it's a miracle Stiles actually hears his answer. Namely:

'She mostly does fantasy themed stuff, but she takes commissions if she likes the idea. Do you have an iPhone or something?'

Stiles nods, unable to keep from licking his lips, and wordlessly hands it over, heart rabbiting for no sane reason as the still-nameless Hot Guy types a URL into his browser. Their thumbs brush when he passes it back, and Jesus, it's not like Stiles is the same easily flustered, perpetually virginal dork he was in early high school, but it's been a long damn time since someone he found sexually attractive also interested him this much as a person, and he's filled with the sudden, burning need to not fuck this up.

'There,' says Hot Guy, handing back the phone.

Stiles peers at the screen, trying to memorise the site in case he accidentally closes the window before he gets home. 'Cora Hale,' he says, reading the seller's handle aloud and repocketing the phone. 'Is that her actual name, or an alias?'

'Her actual name,' says Hot Guy – then seems to realise how weird it is that he's introduced his absent sister ahead of himself, and quickly adds, 'And I'm Derek. Hale.'

'Stiles Stilinski,' says Stiles, grinning.

' _You're_ Stiles?' Derek exclaims. He looks visibly shocked, and Stiles wonders why for a full three seconds before the answer comes to him. A sick feeling settles into his stomach, making him feel ugly and small, and goddamit, he doesn't have anything to be ashamed of, he _doesn't_ , but clearly Derek hasn't heard anything good – or anything he likes, at least – and after Scott's concern and Lydia's speech, he doesn't have the energy to double-down and own it.

'Guess my reputation precedes me,' he says, unable to keep the hurt from his voice. 'I'll just – I'll just go, it's cool –'

He's taken two steps away before Derek says, 'No, wait!' and grabs his arm, holding Stiles in place. His grip is warm against his bicep, firm without being painful, and when Stiles looks at him again, it's clear that Derek's lost for words.

'I didn't mean – I wouldn't – I mean, I've heard of you like that, but I wasn't – Erica's my housemate,' he finally blurts, 'Erica Reyes, she talks about you, and I just wasn't expecting you to be, well –' he gulps, finally pulling his hand away, '– here.'

'Oh,' says Stiles – and then, when the epiphany hits, 'Oh, fuck! _You're_ Erica's Derek? She talks about you, too! She –' _said you were even sluttier than me, actually_ , he almost says, but Derek looks so mortified, he can't bring himself to say it. Awkward silence stretches between them; Stiles's cheeks flame red, and for a moment, the incongruity of (according to Erica) the two most promiscuous guys on campus reduced to speechless embarrassment by their shared reputation is almost enough to make him laugh.

And then an unexpected voice says, haltingly, 'Stiles?'

Stiles goes rigid, cold shame and colder fury sharp in his throat, like dirty ice. He sees the confusion on Derek's face and shuts his eyes against it, wanting desperately to be wrong, but then the voice says his name again, more urgently than before, and Stiles has no choice but to turn and face the music.

'Danny,' he says, and it comes out a rasp. 'What the fuck are you doing here?'

Danny looks pained. 'I tried to get in contact, but you wouldn't answer my messages –'

'Damn fucking right!' Stiles snaps, struggling to keep himself under control. 'Jesus, why would you even –'

'– I _wouldn't_ ,' Danny says, 'but it's not about me, he needs to make amends, it's one of the steps, and I didn't want to do it like this, but I couldn't think how else –'

'Oh, no,' says Stiles. His hands are shaking; he feels physically sick. 'Danny, you didn't, you fucking _didn't_ –'

'He didn't,' says a different voice. 'I did.'

And just like that, he's staring at Jackson – fucking _Jackson_ , who's standing there with his stupid jaw clenched and that look on his face like he knows damn well he's gotten them lost but can't bear to ask for directions, and god, no, this isn't happening, Lydia's house is _safe_ , she changed the locks and Jackson doesn't have a key, not any more, not after last time –

'Get the fuck away from me,' Stiles chokes out, and there's no disguising the fear and shame in his voice, no hiding the fact that other people are starting to watch the drama.

'No,' says Jackson, and for all he sounds calm, Stiles knows him well enough to see the cracks. 'I came here for a reason. I have to apologise.'

He takes a step forward, and Stiles flinches badly, knocking his elbow into Derek, who hasn't so much as moved. Jackson freezes in place, annoyance and some other emotion flashing over his face.

'I'm not going to hurt you,' he says – impatient as well as pleading, because even now, his fucking pride is apparently undamaged.

Stiles laughs, the sound high and hysterical. 'Oh, really! Are you not? That's such a fucking _comfort_ , Jackson, to know that you're not going to hurt me. Jesus Christ, do you even know how many times you promised me that? How many times you _lied_?' He digs his fingernails into his palms, heart beating so fast, it hurts. ' _Come out of the bathroom, Stiles, I'm not going to hurt you. Come home, I won't hurt you, I swear I'm clean.'_ Stiles chokes on an ugly noise, viciously satisfied by the shock on Danny's face, the pained regret on Jackson's, and hisses, ' _You can trust me, baby. I'd_ never _hurt you._ '

Jackson looks like he's been slapped. 'I'm sorry,' he says, with such total and perfect inadequacy that Stiles wants to cry.

'This was a bad idea,' says Danny faintly, tugging on Jackson's arm. 'I didn't – we should go.'

'You do that,' says Stiles. His ears are ringing. 'Go. Just go away.'

Jackson opens his mouth – to protest, presumably – but Danny shakes his head, and Jackson goes meek as a lamb, as though he never once choked Stiles into unconsciousness, or broke his ribs, or threatened him with a broken bottle; as though wasn't ever a violent, cheating, closeted cokehead.

Abruptly, the room is too close, too small. It's possible Derek speaks, but Stiles doesn't hear him: he's stuck underwater and he can't breathe, can't fucking _breathe_ , Jesus, he has to get out, he needs air, and suddenly he's floundering his way through the crowd to the patio doors and lurching out into the garden, gasping like a landed fish. He falls to his knees on the grass, lungs bursting as the panic attack rips through him. Dimly, he's aware of a broad, warm hand on his back, rubbing gentle circles in the space between his shoulders. The simple touch anchors him; he lets out a sob, but Derek's still beside him, voice soothing as he murmurs, 'Breathe, Stiles, that's it, breathe in, just like that, then out again for two, three –'

The litany washes over him, and somehow he manages to suck in air, his heart-rate steadily lowering as his body remembers to function. He shuts his eyes, his knuckles braced on the cool, damp earth, and fails to suppress an all-over shudder of mortification.

'Thanks,' he croaks, when his voice is working again. 'You didn't have to do that.'

'Actually, no,' says Derek. 'I really did.' He stops rubbing Stiles's back, but leaves his hand where it is. 'Can I get you anything? Call anyone? Is –'

'Stiles, oh my god!'

It's Lydia, running over in heels that are highly unsuited for such activity. She spares a quick, approving glance for Derek, then drops down beside them, heedless of getting grass stains on her expensive silk skirt. She looks Stiles over, two spots of colour pinking her cheeks.

'It's okay, Lyds,' Stiles makes himself say. 'I'm okay now.'

'He had a panic attack,' says Derek. 'Those two guys –'

'I cannot _believe_ they did that!' Lydia seethes. 'Jackson, I mean, he's just enough of an asshole to think he could pull that off, but _Danny_? What the actual fuck!'

Stiles shivers, rocking back into Derek's touch. 'He said it was one of his steps, I think. Like in a program. Making amends.' He wraps his arms around his stomach, uncertainty spiking through him. 'Christ, did I do the right thing? What if it sets him off again? What if he relapses?' And then, awfully: 'Oh, god, what if he really _doesn't_ remember? The look on his _face_ , Lydia, I'd swear Danny didn't know –'

Lydia grips his hands and squeezes, her expression ferocious. 'No. No, you're not doing this to yourself. It's on him, Stiles, whatever he does next, whatever he does or doesn't remember, the things he did, it's all on him. You don't owe him anything, and if he ever comes here again, I'm calling the damn cops, okay?'

'Okay,' Stiles says, miserably.

Lydia nods, then flicks her gaze to Derek. 'You looked after him?'

'He did,' says Stiles, when Derek hesitates. 'He's Erica's housemate.'

'You're Derek?' says Lydia, tilting her head. She looks between the two of them, expression flickering like she's out to solve an equation. 'Huh. Well, thanks. I get that this is probably super weird for you –'

'Not so much,' says Derek, softly. 'I mean, reading between the lines... I have some pretty terrible exes, too. It's stressful.'

'Understatement,' says Stiles, moaning as a new realisation hits. He looks at Lydia, panic in his eyes. 'Scott's here,' he says, knowing she'll understand, 'I never told him all of it – any of it, really, but after that – if he hears from someone else –'

'On it,' says Lydia, rocking back to her feet. She hesitates, looking from Stiles to Derek and back again. 'Are you all right out here?' she asks – meaning, _are you all right with him?_

Derek's hand is still on his back, a point of contact that's neither demanding nor hesitant, and for the first time, Stiles turns to look at him. Derek has every reason to be freaked out right now – they literally just met, and that was pretty full-on – but his expression is pure concern, his eyes wide with unfeigned worry.

Stiles gulps, unable to look away. 'I'm fine, Lydia.'

'Okay,' she says, and heads back into the house.

'Stiles?' Derek asks, a moment later. 'What do you need?'

He sounds so sincere that part of Stiles wants nothing better than to burrow into a hole in the ground and stay there forever. Instead, he makes a cracked, hitching laugh and ducks his head, plucking angrily at the grass. 'You must think I'm pathetic.'

'I don't,' says Derek. 'You're not.' His hand twitches against Stiles's back, like he can't quite decide what to do with it, and then he starts rubbing again, more slowly than before. Apparently, he has good instincts: Stiles is tactile at the best of times, but craves this sort of contact when he's upset. An indeterminate silence ticks by, and then, without quite meaning to, Stiles says, 'I dated both of them. Jackson, then Danny. They were always friends, but they're engaged, now. I thought –' He breaks off, staring into the darkened garden, tipping his head back to blink at the stars. 'I don't know what I thought.'

Derek inhales slowly, like he's weighing his next words. 'You don't owe me an explanation,' he says, finally. 'But if you want to talk, I'll listen.'

Almost, Stiles is tempted to tell him the whole sordid business; to just lay it all out like a puckered, scabbing scar and show him where it hurts. But it's a beautiful night, and he doesn't want to pollute it further when fifteen minutes ago, they were flirting and talking Zelda charms.

'Thanks,' says Stiles, 'but I think – I think I just wanna walk for a bit. Walk it off, you know.'

'That's okay,' says Derek. He lets his hand drop, fingertips trailing briefly against Stiles's shirt. 'You, uh – I can go, if you'd rather.'

Stiles takes a shuddering breath and looks at Derek. 'Stay? Please?'

Derek nods, a shy smile on his face. 'I can do that.'

 


	3. Chapter 3

They leave the house by a side path, Derek following Stiles's lead. The air is crisp without being cold, and as they emerge onto the street, Derek finds himself fighting the urge to put an arm around Stiles's waist, and not just because whatever just happened back there was demonstrably traumatic. He's basically a stranger, but there's something about Stiles that flusters Derek in a way he doesn't quite understand, drawing him out of himself. The second he saw him drinking – the long, pale lines of his throat and fingers; bright, clever eyes; that perfect mouth – Derek  _wanted_ , and when Stiles looked at him in turn, he thought he understood how the evening would go.

But then Stiles noticed his Zelda charms from halfway across the room, and ever since, Derek's been upside down. Erica was right in saying he's stopped letting people know him properly, but even thinking back to before he made that choice, he still can't recall a single person who ever just looked and understood him the way Stiles seemed to do. 

And then those other guys, Danny and Jackson, showed up, and even though it was awful – even though it makes him ache, to think of Stiles being so mistreated by either one of them that an unexpected meeting could trigger a panic attack – a part of him is perversely grateful for it, because Derek's romantic history is lousy with abuse and intimacy issues, and knowing that Stiles is coming from a similar place makes him feel like maybe they could help each other; like maybe, for once in his goddamn life, he doesn't have to be the broken one.

For a block and a half, they walk in silence, side by side and close enough that their shoulders brush together. Then Stiles stops, rubbing awkwardly at his elbow, and says, somewhat hesitantly, 'You, um. You wanna get some food, maybe?'

'Sure,' says Derek, trying to keep his enthusiasm at a reasonable level. 'I could eat.'

Stiles smiles at him. 'There's a Chinese place about ten minutes away that does amazing egg rolls.' 

'The one on Harp Street?' 

'Yeah, that's it! You know it?'

'I eat there all the time,' says Derek. 'It's right between my house and the campus.'

'Done,' says Stiles, and together, they start walking again, the mood considerably lightened. 

'So,' says Derek, after a moment's internal struggle about conversation topics. 'You're a Lit major, right?'

'Yeah,' says Stiles, 'but I'm wondering if I should maybe switch to journalism, you know? I mean, god, I've got some great classes, but if I have to read one more apparently classic novel about a straight white dude treating women like shit, I'm going to flip some tables. How about you? I mean, you're, uh, you're a grad student, right?'

'For my sins,' says Derek. 'Trust me, though, you don't want to hear about my thesis – I mean, I'm the one who chose the topic, and even I think it's weird.' 

Stiles laughs, deliberately bumping into him. 'Oh, come on. You say something like that, you've gotta know I'm going to want details.' 

Derek sighs, twiddling one of his Zelda charms between his thumb and forefinger; a longstanding nervous habit. 'It's about wolves,' he says. 'Both narratively and biologically. I'm, uh – well, it's sort of an interdepartmental nightmare, because I'm half in the English school and half in Environmental Science, which, don't even get me started on the politics of that, but basically –' he takes a deep breath, astonished to see that Stiles is hanging on every word, '– I'm looking at how popular stories about wolves have paralleled and influenced their public perception, and how that's gone on to influence actual wolf populations in terms of culling, local legislation, breeding programmes, all that stuff.'

'Oh my god, are you serious?' says Stiles, looking at him with something akin to awe. 'That might be the single coolest thing I've ever heard.'

Derek blinks. 'Really?'

' _Wolves_ , Derek!' Stiles waves his hands. 'Firstly, wolves are awesome; secondly, stories are awesome; thirdly,  _wolf history_ is awesome, therefore your thesis is awesome, therefore  _you_ are  _also_ awesome. QED.' 

'Oh dear, says god, I hadn't thought of that,' Derek murmurs, reflexively quoting  _The Hitchhiker's Guide_ for the second time that day. It's something he does a lot without anyone ever really noticing, and so when Stiles laughs delightedly and finishes the line – 'And promptly vanishes in a puff of logic!' – Derek honest to god trips over his own feet.

'Ow,' he says, flushing with embarrassment. 'That was, um –'

'Elegant,' says Stiles, smiling broadly, 'and also, are you kidding me right now? Zelda, Doctor Who  _and_ Douglas Adams? Why the fuck has Erica never introduced us before?'

'Something about the universe exploding if we ever met.'

Stiles grins. 'Just tell her it'll be replaced by something even more bizarrely inexplicable.'

Derek stops dead under a streetlight, the breath caught in his throat. 'I did,' he says, gaze fixed on Stiles. 'I literally – this morning, I literally said that to her.'

'Great minds,' says Stiles, voice hoarse. They're staring at each other, and Derek knows he should look away, this is way too intense, but then Stiles licks his lips, and it's all he can do to suppress a moan.

'She didn't get it,' he says, helpless against the fact that they're both moving closer together, bodies angling like magnets.

Stiles slides a palm along Derek's hip, long fingers curving over the bone. 'Erica's a philistine.' 

'I said that, too,' says Derek, ghosting his palm over Stiles's cheek, thumb barely brushing the skin. Stiles leans into the touch, his eyes smiling. 

'You're a wise man,' he murmurs, and kisses him.

It's soft and hungry, gentle and eager. Derek makes a needy sound, cupping Stiles's face as he kisses back. Somehow, he finds himself pressing Stiles up against the streetlight, shivering as those big hands pull him closer, skating under the hem of his shirt. Something in him twists, and Derek deepens the kiss, letting one hand sink into Stiles's hair, groaning as the other man gasps into his mouth. They're in the middle of a residential street on their way to get dinner, and that sort of mundane detail shouldn't make it hotter, but it  _does_ , because it means this isn't a rushing-to-fuck or a let's-get-out-of-this-bar kind of kiss, but something else altogether. 

It's  _intimate_ , is what it is, and the realisation is enough to have Derek shaking, because he doesn't do intimate any more; or at least, he thought he didn't. But even though his stomach knots at the implication, he can no more stop than walk on water. Instead, he slows the kiss, cradling the back of Stiles's head, sucking on his plush bottom lip, resting their foreheads together. They don't quite pull apart, but stay as they are, breathing each other, dropping small kisses on jaw and mouth, and when Derek's hand falls from Stiles's cheek, it goes no further than the juncture of his throat and collarbone.

'I, uh,' Stiles says. 'Huh.'

'Mm,' says Derek, similarly coherent. 

Stiles chuckles, a small huff of laughter, and moves his hands back to Derek's hips. 'We should definitely do more of that.'

'Agreed,' says Derek, faintly. 

'Dinner first, though?'

'Dinner first.'

He lets Stiles up, skin thrumming at the loss of contact. They start to walk again, and Derek is wondering what to say when Stiles's hand nudges his. Derek startles, pulse ticking up as slowly, shyly, Stiles links their fingers together. For a moment, the gesture leaves him cottonmouthed: he stares at their hands like he can't remember what it means, and the confusion must show on his face, because Stiles's eyes flash with something like hurt as he starts to pull away. But Derek recovers in time, tugging Stiles back and squeezing his palm. He swallows awkwardly, not sure what to say, but evidently, the gesture is enough. Smiling again, Stiles swings their joined hands like a kid on the way to the playground. It's stupidly endearing, and Derek's stomach swoops like he's missed a step.

'So,' says Stiles, as easily as if the hesitation never happened. 'What got you into your thesis topic? Was it a  _Jaws_ thing, or something else?'

' _Jaws_ ?' says Derek, thrown by the reference. 'What would  _Jaws_ have to do with it?'

'Well, because of the shark culls, you know,' says Stiles, like this is totally obvious. 'After the movie came out, people got freaked out about sharks and culls went way up, even though there hadn't been an increase in attacks. It totally changed the global perception of great whites.'

Derek is stunned. 'Are you sure? I mean, is that – is that a personal theory, or is there actual evidence, or –?'

'Dude, there's papers written about it. There was a whole thing last year in Australia about how their shark cull policy was taking its lead from the movie, not actual facts. I think they even coined a term about it at some point, the Jaws effect? But yeah, it's totally a th– mmph!'

The end of the sentence is muffled somewhat, as Derek drags him in for another kiss. It's quick and dirty and their bodies are at an awkward angle, given that Derek basically pounced midstep, and when he breaks away, Stiles looks dazed. He touches his lips with the tips of his fingers, staring wide-eyed at Derek.

'Not that I'm complaining, but what was that for?'

'For telling me something materially useful to my thesis that I didn't already know,' says Derek, as they start moving again. He gives Stiles's hand another squeeze, ears burning as he fixes his gaze on the sidewalk. 'And for... and for talking about it with me. Most people don't do that.'

'Most people suck,' says Stiles, thumbing Derek's knuckles. 'So, if it wasn't  _Jaws_ , what made you want to study it?' 

'It's... it's kind of embarrassing, actually.'

'I promise not to laugh.' 

Derek sneaks a look at him, lips twitching when he sees the mischevious grin on Stiles's face that says he'll totally laugh, just not in a mocking way. 'Okay. It's just, I was always a pretty serious kid, and when I was about six, my sister Laura started calling me sourwolf – just as a joke, at first, but it stuck, and I  _hated_ it, I hated being teased. But then I started to notice how many stories had bad guy wolves, and I thought, well, Laura calls me sourwolf when I'm not really sour, I just look that way to her, so what if actual wolves are like that, too, and people only think they're mean? So I ended up with a childhood wolf obsession that never quite went away, and when I started seeing new werewolf novels everywhere at the same time I was reading up on the Yellowstone wolf packs, it just sort of, I don't know. Clicked.'

True to his word, Stiles doesn't laugh – though he does grin broadly, bumping his head into Derek's shoulder. 'That's freakin' adorable, dude. Your sister should've called you sweetwolf.' 

'Oh, god,' Derek groans, 'don't ever tell her that, or I'll never hear the end of it.'

'You think I'm likely to get the opportunity?'

It takes Derek a moment to parse this response, and when he does, his mouth falls open. Jesus Christ, did he really just make a joke about Stiles meeting his sister and not even  _notice_ ? That's like jumping six whole relationship steps in a single bound, and Derek – Derek doesn't even  _do_ relationships any more.

Right? 

'You never know,' he says, hoping like hell it comes off as equal parts friendly and noncommital, and not like any part of him is already starting to think of Stiles in ways which, given his history, are legitimately frightening. He gulps, reflexively tightening his grip on Stiles's hand for comfort – and then he instantly flinches, because  _what_ ?

They come to another stop, their hands still joined. Stiles looks at him, tongue darting out to lick his lips, and says, tentatively, 'Hey, Derek?'

His mouth feels dry as a desert. 'Yeah?' 

'Look, I just – I wanted – okay.' Stiles takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. 'Cards on the table: I am really, really terrible at relationships – or at least, I've only ever been  _in_ terrible relationships, which maybe isn't quite the same thing, but seeing as how I don't have a functional basis for comparison, there's every chance I'm just an appalling person to be with – I mean, I can do sex, I can do casual, but this, what we're doing right now, the whole walking and talking and quoting and you calming me down from a panic attack thing? This is actually, like, the best date I've ever been on – not that it's a  _date_ date,' he adds hurriedly, eyes going wide, 'I just mean I've never been on an  _actual_ date that was half this good, and I don't know what Erica's told you about me, and it's totally cool if you'd rather not – believe me, I have so many years of experience with rejection, I can absolutely deal with it like a grown adult, no harm, no foul – but if you wanted to maybe, uh – if you felt like – I was kinda hoping – can we make this date?'

Time seems to stop, and as he falters, Derek is hit with a blizzard of flashbacks: Kate's smile as she cut her plea deal, copping to the arson charge to avoid being tried for rape; Duke calmly offering to share him with Ennis, as though Derek had no say in the matter; Jen sobbing that if he really, truly loved her, he'd do what she wanted.

Derek inhales sharply. 'Stiles, I haven't... I don't have anything good to compare this to, either. I'm so – I'm really – I'm damaged,' he says, voice cracking on the word, 'god, you have no idea how damaged I am, and I just – I need to be clear about that, okay? I need you to understand, up front, that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.' He laughs, the sound shaky and raw. 'But I want to try, I think. With you. On a date. To, uh. To do that. Now.'

A complicated expression ripples over Stiles's face, resolving slowly into a look of pure, beaming happiness. 'Okay, then,' he says, and slowly lifts their joined hands up, the better to kiss Derek's knuckles. 'Okay. So. This is totally a date.' 

He grins, and Derek grins back, elated and nervous and stupidly, incongruously joyful. 'Still happy with Chinese?'

'Absolutely.'

'Good,' says Derek, and starts up walking again, the press of Stiles's hand in his a welcome, anchoring warmth. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The food is as good as always, and even though Stiles and Derek order separate dishes, they end up sharing everything. Mostly, they steal from each other's plates, Derek feigning annoyance as Stiles teasingly snags a slice of duck or a honey chilli prawn, then slyly returning the favour. Once or twice, though, they end up feeding each other, and each time it happens, a quiet thrill runs through Stiles. He doesn't know what's more enjoyable: taking food from Derek's chopsticks, or the look on Derek's face as he does the reverse.

There's a tension between them, palpable but not unpleasant, and if Stiles is honest with himself, its been there since they first locked eyes at the party. Whenever their feet bump under the table – a not infrequent occurrence, given the length of their legs and the size of the booth – they startle and grin at each other. They talk easily about their favourite books and shows, about their respective degrees, about shared friends, about family, and as many interests as they seem to have in common, their thoughts are diverse enough that they never lapse into the awkward, conversational abyss of _me-too-now-what?_.

And yet, for all that, there's an elephant in the room; a topic they skirt, but never quite address. Stiles doesn't know how badly Derek's been burned in the past, but if the heartbreaking way he said _I'm damaged_ is anything to go by, it clearly wasn't minor. Years of exposure to Scott's infectious optimism have made Stiles a kinder, more trusting and emotionally resilient person than he's natively inclined to be, but deep down, he thinks of himself as a realist. Maybe that's just how he always was, or maybe it's the unavoidable consequence of having watched his mother die when he was just old enough to understand what it meant, but either way, the fact that he and Derek are having dinner at all is a goddamn triumph of hope over experience, and sooner or later, they're going to have to discuss exactly why that is.

Because rationally, neither of them should be here, let alone swapping General Tso's chicken and prawn crackers and laughing like it's something they do every day. Stiles enjoys sex, but the true beauty of one night stands is their simplicity, how easy it is to control them. He makes no promises, tells no secrets, and every time it goes to plan, he reclaims a tiny piece of himself, a shard that says _you trusted them not to hurt you, and they didn't_. Every successful hookup is proof that he's capable of sound judgement, at least in the short term, but dating is a whole other ballgame, and Derek –

Derek has a dry sense of humour, an encyclopaedic knowledge of wolves and a handmade Zelda charm bracelet, and even if he wasn't also the single hottest human being Stiles has ever seen in real life, that would still be enough to make him a threat to Stiles's carefully won equilibrium.

Stiles has never been good at avoiding trouble.

They finish the meal, split the bill, tip a combined twenty percent and head out into the evening, arguing the merits of nineties cartoons over new ones.

'Look,' says Derek, ' _Avatar_ and _Legend of Korra_ are excellent shows, but _Daria_ was scarily prescient; they did a huge amount of representational stuff I've never seen elsewhere. They actually used the word bisexuality to describe someone's orientation, instead of just alluding to it –'

'One time, they did that!' Stiles exclaims. 'One time, with one character, in one episode!'

'– which is a low bar, yeah, but how many other cartoons even do that much? And the Lost Girls thing, with Val Magazine? They did that _years_ before anyone was even talking about lost boys as a cultural phenomenon!'

'Okay, look, _Daria_ was amazing, I'm not trying to argue that point, but it's nearly twenty years old, dude! I mean, a lot's happened since then, you've gotta –'

' _Twenty_ years?' says Derek, looking mortally offended. 'Come on, that can't be right –'

'Do the maths! _Daria_ started in 1997, and we're in 2015. Babies born back then are newly-legal adults.'

Derek groans. 'Oh, god, don't. I feel ancient.'

'You think that's a mindfuck? I was at the bookshop the other day, and there were a bunch of thirteenagers in there –'

'Thirteenagers?'

Stiles rolls his eyes. 'Teenagers who are literally thirteen, or who act like they are. How is that not contextually obvious?'

Derek snorts. 'That wasn't my objection. Were these the former or the latter?'

'The former.'

'And you knew this how? The signs around their necks?'

'More like the fact that they were having an obnoxiously loud conversation about birthdays, but the _point,_ Derek, is that they were all born _after nine-eleven_ , and two of them didn't know what it even _was_.'

'Okay, you win. That's terrifying.'

'That's not even the worst part, though! One of them thought it was a new type of Seven Eleven chain! I just! I mean!'

'I don't know if that's hilarious, or just depressing.'

'Both, Derek. Definitely both.'

'I still think nineties cartoons were better.'

Stiles laughs.

They keep walking, and after a moment, Derek says, 'So, uh. I don't actually live too far from here if you wanted to, um – I mean, I have some beer in the fridge, we could put something on –'

'Yeah,' says Stiles, grinning with a mix of nerves and excitement. 'Let's do that.'

'Okay,' says Derek. He hesitates, then adds in a rush, 'Just to be clear, I'm not – we don't have to do anything, I don't expect – I mean, if you wanted to, that's fine, but if not –'

'I get it,' says Stiles, a sudden rush of affection tightening his throat. He takes Derek's hand again, squeezing his palm. 'Man, this is so surreal. This morning, Lydia gave me me a big speech about how I shouldn't call myself a slut if I mean it as an insult, no matter how many people I bang, and this evening I'm on an actual date and legitimately freaking out about doing it right.'

'Erica might have had a similar talk with me,' Derek admits. 'Or at least, I think that's what she was trying to do. But then she brought up my ex, and I kind of yelled at her.' His jaw works soundlessly for a moment, as though he's wrestling with something. 'You... earlier, at the party, you asked Lydia to explain things to someone? Scott?'

Stiles swallows. 'Yeah. He's my best friend, my housemate, but I never – he's an amazing guy, but I couldn't... I didn't want to tell him all the bad stuff that happened with me, you know? Not because I don't trust him; it's just, he has this way of seeing the good in everyone, this optimism, and I know he'd have my back in a second, but I just, I hate being the one to shake his faith in people. It's not like he's naïve or anything – believe me, his girlfriend's family are nuts, it's a whole issue – but, I don't know. Maybe it's stupid or whatever, but I just, I didn't want him to know that about me. He's already protective enough, it's not like he needs another reason.'

He falls silent, cheeks burning at the confession, and Derek says, softly, 'Believe me, I understand. Erica's not an optimist, but she's brave in a way that I'll never be, and after I... when I wasn't with Jen any more, I didn't know how to explain it to her, why it went so wrong, there was all this history she didn't know, and it was easier just to simplify it.' He takes a shaky breath. 'I wasn't... saying I'm damaged, Stiles, that's not an exaggeration. You deserve to know what you're getting into with me, if we're really – if you really want to do this?'

It comes out a question, the rising inflection soft with self-doubt, and just at that moment, Stiles is hard-pressed to think of anything he's ever wanted more. 'I really do,' he says. 'I mean, trust me, I've got more than my share of issues, but I'm sick of being afraid of wanting things for myself, and I think, with you – I think this is worth the risk.'

The words hang between them, bright as stars, and Stiles feels like an idiot, and liberated, and terrified, and who the fuck even says something like that on a first date? God, Lydia was right, it's a miracle he has a sex life at all, he's demonstrably overreaching himself to try and add a romantic component –

And then Derek says, 'Me, too.'

 _Really?_ Stiles almost says, but he tamps it down, because neither of them needs the insecurity. Instead, he smiles and says, 'Well, good then,' and surprises himself by leaning over and kissing Derek's cheek.

 

*

 

It shouldn't be possible, Derek thinks, to feel so comfortable with someone he's just met. The paranoid part of him worries that he's letting his guard down; objectively, the fact that Stiles shares his taste in books and can talk enthusiastically about Studio Ghibli doesn't mean Derek should trust him, or that he's automatically a good person. But Erica knows and likes him, and Erica, whatever else can be said about her, has both an unerring instinct and an absolute intolerance for asshats, and if Stiles hasn't pinged her radar, then maybe Derek can afford to have faith.

Unlocking the door to his house, he flips the lights and gestures Stiles in ahead of him, trying to keep his desire in check. He hasn't forgotten the promise in that kiss, the way Stiles felt against him, and as much as he wants, for once in his life, to try and do things properly, Stiles is the kind of beautiful that makes him ache. It's not just his body, though his fingers itch with the need to map it out; it's the way he lights up when he talks, that restless, eloquent, full body animation that makes Derek want to see if he can fuck him into stillness, or – god – be fucked by him.

'Nice place,' says Stiles, jerking him back to the moment. He's standing in the middle of the lounge, head tilted to examine the DVD collection. 'Hey, _Legally Blonde_! Is that yours or Erica's?'

'Mine,' says Derek, opening the fridge. 'It's a good film.'

'Oh, totally,' says Stiles, and flashes another smile. 'Also, props for not denying it.'

'I'm an asshole, not an idiot,' Derek says. 'You want a beer?'

'Hit me,' says Stiles. Derek tosses him a can, and Stiles catches it one-handed, huffing a noise of triumph as he flops down on the couch, as easy as if he belongs there. 'So, what do you wanna watch?'

Derek's been giving this some thought; he wants to make a good impression, and with Stiles, he doesn't have to hide what he likes. 'You ever seen _Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law_?'

'No?' says Stiles, one eyebrow raised. 'But I've definitely heard of it.'

Derek grins. 'You'll like it. Trust me.'

He puts the DVD in the player, grabs the remote and settles on the couch beside Stiles, close enough that their knees are touching, but not so close that there's no room between them.

Thirty seconds into the first episode, Stiles starts laughing so hard, he almost doubles over.

'Oh my fucking _god_ , dude! How have I never seen this before?'

'Shh,' says Derek, smiling. 'It gets better.'

Even though he's watched it all often enough to know the jokes by heart, Derek still finds himself chuckling, caught up in Stiles's enthusiasm. They move steadily closer together, and when Stiles buries his face in Derek's shoulder, gasping with laughter at Shaggy and Scooby being charged with possession, Derek puts an arm around him, pulling Stiles close and dropping a kiss on his temple. It feels like such a natural thing to do that he doesn't even question it, but when Stiles snuggles closer, putting an arm across his stomach, Derek damn near stops breathing, momentarily overwhelmed.

'You okay?' Stiles asks, quietly.

'Yeah,' says Derek, forcing himself to inhale. 'Yeah, I just – this is nice.'

'It really is,' says Stiles, and rests his head on Derek's shoulder, warm and lean and trusting.

They stay cuddled together, occasionally swapping commentary on this scene or that, but mostly just laughing and watching, and when the disc runs out, Derek feels so content that he can't bring himself to get up and change it, and says as much out loud.

'Hey, I'm good right here,' Stiles says, and leans up to kiss the underside of Derek's jaw. 'No rush.'

'No rush,' Derek echoes, and all at once, something painful twists in his chest. It's such a stupid reaction, they're not even talking about sex, but Stiles hasn't pressured him about that, either, and it suddenly hits him that he's never really been with someone who didn't try and get him straight into bed. Hell, if he's being honest, it's part of why he started sleeping around in the first place: if being objectified was inevitable, then at least he could make sure it happened on his terms, control the when and how.

Make it into his choice, instead of one that was taken from him.

He shuts his eyes, aware that he's started breathing too fast and trying to calm down before Stiles notices, but it's no good: the other man shifts against him, sitting up a little, and asks, 'Is this all right? Do you want me to move?'

'Please don't,' says Derek. The words come out hoarse. 'I'm sorry. I just realised I've never done this before.'

'Never done what? Couch-hugging?'

Derek shakes his head. 'Not that,' he says. 'Waiting. I've never – people always jumped right in with me, and I guess that got me into the habit of trying to jump in first, only I didn't realise that's what I was doing until just now.' He sighs, and says again, 'I'm sorry.'

'Hey, no, don't apologise. I get it, I really do.' Stiles looks at him, bites his lip. 'Actually, I was kinda... can we hold off on the whole sex thing for a bit?'

Derek doesn't know whether to panic or not. 'Why?'

'Because, like you said, with the jumping in. I've been doing it a lot lately, too, and it's not like I think there's anything wrong with promiscuity, whatever the reason –'

'Me, neither.'

'– right, but maybe, I don't know. It kinda feels like we both want this to be different than that? So I just, uh. I just thought, maybe we should go slow? Or at least, slower than we have been.'

A tremulous smile breaks out on Derek's face. 'No sex,' he says, bringing his free hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind Stiles's ear. 'Yet.'

'Yet,' Stiles agrees.

'But this is okay? Touching?' He drags his thumb over Stiles's cheek, loving the way he shivers. 'Kissing?'

'Yeah,' says Stiles, and brushes their lips together. It's sweet and gentle, and Derek melts into it, utterly content. Which isn't to say he's not aroused – he absolutely is, and part of him wants nothing more than to pull Stiles into his lap and grind up against him until they both go off like rockets. But the very fact that he's choosing not to – that _they're_ choosing not to – excites him in a different way. It's not just that they're letting sex take a temporary back seat; it's that suddenly, everything else they could do instead has taken on new significance. In a burst of sudden clarity, Derek knows exactly what he wants, and for once in his life, he feels brave enough to ask for it.

Before he can overthink it, he pulls back, his hand still cupping Stiles's jaw, and says, 'Will you stay the night with me?'

Stiles's eyes widen – and not, Derek thinks, in shock. 'Just sleeping together, you mean?'

'Yeah,' says Derek. 'Clothes on, if you prefer. Or boxers. Or whatever. But I want.' He hesitates, thumb idly tracing Stiles's bottom lip, then says, 'I want to wake up with you.'

Stiles's mouth drops open, and for half a second, he sucks the tip of Derek's thumb between his teeth, giving it a gentle bite, before letting go. 'I'd like that, too,' he says, just a hint of teasing in his eyes, and then they're kissing again, more passionately than before. Derek groans as Stiles threads his fingers through his hair, nipping at his lips, and when, minutes later, they finally pull apart, they're both breathing heavily, pupils wide and mouths red.

'I'll, uh,' says Derek, dazedly. He's hard in his pants, and he can't remember the last time that happened where he wasn't in a position to do something about it. 'Just. The disc. Change it. I'll, uh. Do that.'

'Yeah,' says Stiles, sounding similarly wrecked. 'You do that.'

Derek changes the disc, and when he sits back down, he leaves a little space between them, though his arm stays looped along the back of the couch, his fingertips just touching Stiles's shoulder.

It hasn't exactly been a big night – or at least, not by recent standards – but halfway through, Derek finds himself yawning.

'You want to turn in, big guy?' Stiles asks.

Derek raises an eyebrow. 'Big guy?'

'You're all muscly. It seemed appropriate.'

'I can live with that,' says Derek, smiling. 'And yes. If that's okay.'

'I'm pretty tired,' Stiles admits. 'Any chance I can borrow a toothbrush?'

It turns out, there's an unopened spare in the cupboard under the sink, and while Stiles washes up, Derek puts their empty beer cans in the trash, turns off the TV, locks the front door, and takes a moment to steady himself, because _holy shit, this is happening_.

He finds Stiles hovering at the bathroom threshold, dressed in a pair of plain blue boxer briefs, his shoes and clothes clutched to his chest. Derek's mouth goes slightly dry at the sight, and it's a second before he remembers to say, 'Uh, bedroom's the second door along. I sleep on the right side of the bed.'

'Works for me,' says Stiles. 'I sleep on the left.'

They brush past each other, and as he goes through his evening routine, Derek tries very hard not to think about Stiles lying in bed, waiting for him, spread out under the sheets, maybe touching himself, biting his bottom lip to keep from gasping –

 _No. No. I'm waiting._ We're _waiting,_ Derek tells himself, and feels something warm unfurl in his chest at the prospect. Which is new and slightly weird, given that he's never in his life held to the antiquated notion that sex belongs on a pedestal, and for a moment, he worries that he's somehow made a mistake or changed his outlook on life without noticing. Then he frowns, because that's not right, either, and after a moment's consideration, he manages to unpick his train of thought.

The problem isn't that he's been sleeping around; it's that he's grown so accustomed to people using him for sex that he's adopted a pre-emptive policy, not of using _them_ , but of using _himself_ , and if he sleeps with Stiles tonight in a more than simply bed-sharing sense, he's always going to wonder if he really, truly wanted to, or if he was just so worried about Stiles using him that he felt the need to get in and do it first.

It's a sobering realisation, and for the first time since asking Stiles to stay, Derek contemplates the possibility that he's making another horrific error of judgement; that Stiles, like Kate and Duke and Jen, is going to push his boundaries. But it was Stiles who asked that they hold off on sex, and so far, he hasn't done a single thing to merit any suspicion.

Derek takes a breath, undresses down to his boxer shorts, and heads on into the bedroom.

Stiles is already under the covers, both arms folded behind his head, his clothes and shoes in a neat pile by the bedside. Derek feels his heart speed up, and takes an extra moment to shove his dirty things in the hamper, setting his shoes on the rack.

'You know, honey,' says Stiles, affecting a Midwestern drawl, 'I had a terrible day at the office. Bill in Finance kept hitting on me, and I spent the whole afternoon thinking it was your turn to pick the kids up from school, so of course, I was late, and Jeffrey sulked the whole way home.'

Derek snorts with laughter. 'Of course he did. You named him Jeffrey.'

'Don't be rude!' says Stiles, and throws a balled-up sock at him. 'You _know_ it's a family name.'

'That's no excuse,' says Derek, and just like that, any lingering thread of anxiety vanishes. He doesn't know if that's what Stiles intended, if he was trying to break the ice or just being himself, but either way, he's grateful for it. He hits the lights, then pads over to his side of the bed, sliding in under the sheets. 'We should've gone with Dexter.'

Stiles scoffs. 'What, and name our imaginary son after a serial killer?'

'At least Dexter's a fictional serial killer on the side of good,' says Derek. 'As opposed to, say, Jeffrey Dahmer.'

'Touché,' says Stiles, chuckling in the darkness. 'You win this round.'

'I'm talented that way,' says Derek. Then, more hesitantly: 'Stiles?'

'Yeah?'

'How do you feel about spooning?'

'Pro,' is the instant reply. 'I'm definitely pro spoon.'

'Big or little?'

'Either, generally,' says Stiles, after a moment, 'but right now, uh – big?'

Derek tries to tell himself he would've been happy with either answer, and fails. 'Works for me,' he says, and rolls on his side, lips twitching as Stiles curls against him, one arm folding gently over his side.

'Is this okay?' Stiles murmurs, his lips ghosting the nape of Derek's neck.

Derek laces their fingers together, letting his eyes slip shut. 'Perfect,' he murmurs.

Stiles kisses the top of his spine – a chaste, affectionate gesture. 'Night, Derek.'

'Night.'

He falls asleep within minutes, warmed by the press of Stiles's chest against his back, the rhythm of his breathing. He dreams deeply, peacefully, moreso than he has in months –

Until he's wakened abruptly by thrashing, Stiles making panicked noises in his throat.

Derek goes from bleary to wired in under three seconds. Swearing, he sits up, turns on the bedside light and puts a hand on Stiles's shoulder, squeezing him gently, heart rabbiting at way his face is twisted up in imagined pain.

'Stiles. Stiles, wake up. You're having a nightmare. Come on, it's okay, you're safe. You just need to wake up. Stiles? Can you hear me?'

With a muffled cry, Stiles lurches upright, eyes snapping open as he gasps for air. He flails his arms up, protecting his head, sneaking terrified glances at the unfamiliar room. Derek waits him out, wanting desperately to say something helpful but unable to find the words. He has a dim idea what this might be about, but he doesn't want to assume anything, and until or unless Stiles volunteers the details, it's not his place to ask.

Slowly, Stiles lowers his arms and swallows, clutching at the blankets. 'What happened?' he asks, his voice raw.

'You had a nightmare, I think,' says Derek, softly.

Stiles looks like he wants to cry. 'Oh,' he says, shaking. 'Oh.'

'It's okay. It's not your fault. It's fine.'

'Sorry,' Stiles croaks. 'It hasn't happened in a while. I should've – I didn't think, I should've warned you –'

'Hey, no, it's all right,' Derek murmurs, and he isn't sure which of them moves, but suddenly he's holding Stiles, wrapping him close, and Stiles returns the favour, burying his face in Derek's chest as he clings on like an octopus. Derek strokes his back, hating that Stiles is shaking; hating his suspicion that this somehow comes back to Danny and Jackson, just like the panic attack.

'I'm damaged, too,' Stiles whispers. And then, almost inaudibly, 'He damaged me.'

A lump rises in Derek's throat. 'I've got you,' he says. 'You're safe with me, I promise. You're safe here.'

Stiles shakes and holds on more tightly, tangling their legs. He doesn't speak, but slowly, surely, his breathing steadies, his pulse returning to normal. His muscles relax, but he stays where he is, and eventually, he falls back asleep, still clutching Derek, who marvels at the incongruous novelty of being the one to offer comfort.

Twenty minutes later, he finally falls asleep with the still light on.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles wakes slowly, snug and content in a blanket cocoon. There's something warm and solid wedged up against his back, and for a moment, he considers drifting back to sleep.

And then the solid thing _moves_ , and he remembers: the party, Jackson and Danny, the date with Derek, going to bed, and then – awfully, humiliatingly – the nightmare.

Stiles tenses, taking stock of the situation. Derek, who's still asleep and hugging him from outside the blankets – which Stiles, being Stiles, has basically stolen wholesale – makes a small, grumbly noise and presses his face between Stiles's shoulders, clearly unwilling to move. Not that Stiles is the kind of asshole who'd sneak away out of embarrassment without even saying goodbye, except that, yeah, he totally is, and if Derek were really a one night stand, instead of someone he's maybe starting to have Feelings about, he'd already be halfway out the door.

But as it is, he's not even sure he wants to leave the bed. It's reassuring to be held like this, a creature comfort he's denied himself with other partners, and letting distrust get the better of him seems a poor way to repay Derek for having talked him down from both a nightmare and a panic attack.

As though sensing Stiles's wakefulness, Derek rubs languidly against him, pressing a sleepy kiss behind his ear.

'M'cold,' he murmurs. 'Share.'

Stiles smiles despite himself and tugs the stolen blanket out from between them, tossing it back to cover Derek, who promptly snuggles closer, skin to skin.

'Better,' he says, and drops another kiss on Stiles's neck. 'This is nice.'

Stiles laces their fingers together, burrowing back against him. 'Very.'

They're silent, breathing together for several long minutes. It's safe and comforting and warm, and Stiles doesn't want for that to end, but there's a sour thread of anxiety tangled in his throat about last night, and if he doesn't explain himself now, he's not sure he'll be brave enough to do it later.

And besides, this way, he doesn't have to make eye contact.

'Derek?'

'Mm?'

'Can I tell you something?'

Minutely, Derek shifts against him. It's a strange intuition to have, but something in the way his muscles twitch suggests that he's paying attention. 'Sure,' he says, and drops another kiss on Stiles's neck. 'I'm listening.'

'It's about, uh. What happened. With me. Last night, and, um. Before then.'

'Okay,' says Derek. Very gently, his thumb strokes over Stiles's knuckles.

'It's just, you know. It's kind of heavy, and I wouldn't – I wouldn't dump it on you first thing, but it's kind of, uh. It's why I keep getting freaked out, and I feel like you deserve to know, and I want – before we do anything else, I want you to know what you're dealing with. So.'

Derek nods. 'I'm listening.'

'Okay,' says Stiles, trembling a little. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. 'Okay, so. My group of friends, we've all known each other since high school. Well, okay, I've known Scott longer than that, but the rest of us, we went to Beacon Hills High, and from minute one, I had, like, the worst crush on Lydia. It was terrible; I was absolutely gone on her for ages, and she barely knew I existed. And then she started dating Jackson, right, and he was captain of the lacrosse team, which Scott and I were on – I mean, we sucked, we mostly just rode the bench, but anyway, the point is, we had practice together all the time, and Jackson was a total douche, but I figured, I dunno, maybe if I could get in with him, then I'd end up closer to Lydia, get invited to their sort of parties. Dumbass teenage logic, right?'

He gives a nervous laugh, and Derek hugs him. 'Right,' he says, softly, and somehow, that gives Stiles the strength to continue.

'Right. And it's not like I expected it to work, but suddenly we're at the start of senior year, and Jackson fucking Whittemore is taking an interest in me, just not when anyone else is there to see it. So at first, I figured I was imagining things, how he'd look at me sometimes or be nice to me or whatever, only then we're in the locker rooms after practice one day, everyone else is gone, we're both in the showers, and he just – he just grabbed me and kissed me, right up against the tiles. And it's not like I'd never thought about guys that way – hell, it's not like I'd never thought about _him_ that way, even – but I was so obsessed with Lydia that it sort of crowded out everything else, you know? And I thought, this is so wrong, this is _Lydia's boyfriend_ , the last thing I want is to hurt her, but I was seventeen and horny and I just kind of went with it.

'Which is totally ridiculous, right? Because all of a sudden, I'm Jackson's dirty little secret. I'm his dirty, cheating mistress. He invites me and Scott to parties and whatever, plays it off like it's just because we're on the team, but meanwhile, I'm waiting for him in the bathroom, letting him use me, and it's this big secret drama, because he can barely even admit he's bi, let alone that he's into me – I mean, Danny was always openly gay, and Danny was his best friend –'

'Danny was there, too?' asks Derek, surprised.

'Yeah,' Stiles says, gulping a sound that's almost laughter. 'I told you, it was messed up. Jackson had – has – serious issues, you know? He's this total type-A achiever, and I think he was maybe an okay guy at one point in time, but finding out he was adopted really screwed him up. Like, he had this idea of himself as this perfect pedigree richboy, only it turned out he came from somewhere else, and he just – I don't know. It shattered him, somehow. But the point is, he was closeted: he never had a single issue with Danny being gay, but that didn't mean he wanted to be that way himself, and he figured I'd be too grateful I was getting any to rat him out – and even if I had done, I'd have sunk my chances with Lydia, and I still kinda wanted her, because I was exactly that pathetic, and he knew it.'

'You're not pathetic, Stiles.'

'Yeah, well, I sure as hell felt like it.' He shuts his eyes, taking a moment, and Derek waits him out, gently stroking his hand. 'Anyway. Long story short, Jackson started treating Lydia like crap, she got suspicious, and we got caught, like, _in the act_ caught. She dumped him on the spot, and he begged her not to tell anyone, and she was so, so furious, but neither of us was out and Jackson clearly didn't want to be, and Lydia might be a princess, but she was always a person, too, and so she didn't tell. Anyone. Not even Danny. And maybe... maybe things would've been different, if she had. Better. Or maybe not, I don't know. Anyway.'

He takes another deep breath, struggling to keep his voice even. 'So, school ended, and none of us were really talking to each other, which is how we all ended up at the same university – which is kinda ironic, really. I mean, at the time, if any of us had known the others were coming here, we would've run a mile in the opposite direction, but we weren't talking, so we didn't, and it's a really good school, you know? Or, well, Scott and I knew we were coming here, but that's different, he's practically my brother, but Danny and Jackson and Lydia – no clue. And then, suddenly, here we all were, and Jackson... Lydia wouldn't take him back, and Danny was easing him out of the closet, and he comes to me, he says he's sorry for treating me like crap, and do I want to try and have an actual relationship?'

'And you said yes?'

'I said yes,' says Stiles, shuddering. 'And it was okay at first, for a little while, but when it really got bad – god, it was awful, and not just... he blamed me, you know? Blamed me for Lydia, blamed me for making him want guys, all of it. I think, looking back, it was Danny's idea for him to try and date me properly, and Jackson still couldn't fucking admit it was Danny he really wanted, so of course he said yes. We started going clubbing together, he cheated on me every other week, and Jackson's family is crazy rich, he had all this money and he just... I honestly, I wish I knew which of his douchebag fuckbuddies started him on coke, because that asshole needs to fucking die, whoever they are, but after that, he got... he got violent, he'd –' his voice breaks, and Derek just holds him, solid and reassuring, '– god, he used to fucking terrify me, and I didn't, I couldn't talk about it because I thought I deserved it, I stole him away from _Lydia_ and I was _nobody_ , and he – and he – god, he choked me unconscious once, I woke up and he was sobbing that he didn't mean to, that he needed help, and I didn't know how to just leave him like that, you know? I didn't want to stay, but I didn't want to let him get worse and have it be my fault.

'So, I tried. I tried to get him clean, but he was erratic, he kept changing his mind about wanting help, and this one night, he just – he got really fucked up, he was furious, I thought he was going to kill me, and I went, I ran to Danny's place, I didn't know what else to do, my dad's the sheriff back home but I didn't want him to get involved, and I –' he gulps, trying to slow down, keep calm, but the memories are rising up along with his pulse, '– I got to Danny's, and Lydia was there, she saw what he'd done, and they – and I –'

'Stiles, it's okay. You're safe. Take your time.' Derek squeezes his hand. 'Or you can stop, you don't have to –'

'No! No, I just – just let me get it out, okay?'

'Okay. Whatever you need. Just take a breath first, I'm not going anywhere. We've got all day.'

Stiles nods, momentarily incapable of speech, and squeezes his eyes shut. When he finally speaks again, his voice is softer, more measured, and his pulse is starting to settle. 'Long story short, we broke up, Jackson went off the rails, and I... I ended up with Danny, somehow. He was there for me, and he understood about Jackson, because we both wanted him to get better, and it gave us something in common. And Lydia, she started looking out for me, we started talking, and that was good. _Danny_ was good, you know? He's a good guy. He was good to me, and the first time Jackson showed up off his head and started in on me, Danny got him to leave, he backed me up, and I thought – I thought he'd picked a side, I guess. My side. But he hadn't.'

'He left you for Jackson?' Derek asks, incredulous.

'Yeah,' says Stiles, and manages a weak laugh. 'Total bullshit, right? They got engaged after, like, a _month_ , or something ridiculous. Turns out, they'd been talking in secret the whole time, and Jackson basically poured his heart out about always having been in love with Danny, about how sorry he was, and once he'd been clean for a few months, once he agreed to rehab, Danny just... went. He was nice about it, but I didn't want nice, I wanted him to be a jerk so I could be angry at the pair of them – angry in public, I mean, not just in private – but instead, they left me alone, and I hadn't –' he wipes his eyes on his wrist, unaware of when he started crying, '– last night, at the party, that was pretty much the first time I'd seen either of them since the week that Danny left me.'

Derek is quiet for a moment, his muscles tense. 'Stiles,' he says, quietly, 'how long ago did all this happen?'

Stiles hangs his head. 'Five months,' he whispers. 'That's when it ended. I was with Danny for nearly a year, and before that, I was with Jackson for nearly two. Closer to two and a half, if you count what happened when he was still with Lydia. I, uh. I dated one other guy, Matt, between the end of high school and the start of college, but he was kind of a creeper. Took naked photos of me without permission and put them on the internet, which pretty much sucked. At the time, I figured dating Jackson for real would be a step up. Guess not, though.'

He falls silent, curling in on himself, waiting for Derek to tell him he should've known better, should've been smart enough to leave, that he's an idiot who isn't worth the effort. Instead, Derek wraps him close and says, fiercely, 'Those assholes didn't deserve you.'

Something in Stiles cracks. 'But what if I deserved _them_?' he chokes out. 'I mean, what if it's just me? What if I made them act like that, if it's all my fault –'

'You didn't,' Derek says, low and urgent, 'Stiles, I promise you didn't. Dating people who use you, who abuse you, who treat you badly – it doesn't mean you wanted it or deserved it or any of that bullshit; it just means you dated assholes, okay? But sometimes, when it happens enough, if it's all you know –' he takes a deep, tight breath, and Stiles turns in his arms, so that they're finally face to face, '– then it skews your baseline for what relationships should be, and you can end up... you sometimes date more bad people, not because it's what you want, but because you think, oh, this new person doesn't hurt me like she did, so that must mean he's not hurting me at all –'

He breaks off, looking pained, and this time, it's Stiles who gently puts a hand on Derek's cheek, thumb stroking over the bone, waiting out his silence.

Derek is still for almost a minute, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, eyes lowered. 'When I was sixteen, there was an older woman. Kate. She worked at my gym. My girlfriend had just dumped me and moved interstate, I was lonely and she, she made me feel noticed, special, but even so, I didn't... she took advantage of me. It wasn't just statutory; she told me I wanted her, and I did, but not like that, not yet, and when I finally – when I realised it was wrong, when it got too much, I broke it off. But she didn't want to let me go, and I said if she didn't, I'd tell my parents. So she tried to burn our house down.'

'Jesus, Derek,' Stiles whispers. 'Was everyone all right?'

'No fatalities,' he says. 'We all got out in time, though there were some burns, some smoke inhalation. I told the cops everything, but I had no evidence for the affair. She ended up taking a deal; a reduced sentence for pleading guilty for arson, and in return, they'd drop the rape charge. She's still in prison, I think.'

'Good,' says Stiles, tangling their legs together. 'I hope she rots.'

'Me, too,' says Derek. More softly, he adds, 'I knew it wasn't my fault. Rationally, I knew that. But I still ended up with bad people, because I kept thinking, well, they're not actually doing what she did, so that means they're treating me well, but they weren't, Stiles, I just didn't know how to see it.'

He hesitates, then, like he's not sure what to say next, and on no impulse he can name, Stiles tugs the blanket over their heads and pins it in place, cocooning them completely. Derek looks surprised, then smiles that same slow, dawning smile that amplifies his beauty a hundredfold.

'Monsters can't get you under the covers,' Stiles says, seriously.

'So I've heard,' says Derek, dryly. He lifts a hand and rests it briefly on Stiles's collarbone, sliding his palm across his shoulder and down his arm, until it comes to rest on the jut of his hip. Their eyes meet, and Stiles shivers pleasantly at the contact, but doesn't move, and after a moment, Derek licks his lips, sighs, and speaks.

'At the start of college, I dated this older guy, Deucalion. Duke. He was manipulative, clever. He never hurt me physically; just steered me where he wanted me to go, made me think I wanted what he did. He liked displaying me, liked people to see us together, sexually. I was never comfortable with it, but he made it seem reasonable, so I did it anyway. And then, one day, in the middle of –' He snaps his jaw shut, tensing up, and flicks his gaze to the blanket roof, like he's summoning courage. 'I was blowing him,' he says, voice hard, 'and people were watching, and out of nowhere, he just offered to share me with one of his friends, like it was _normal_. And the guy said _yes_. And I realised, then, that everything Duke had done, everything he'd had me do, had been leading up to that moment. He'd been acclimatising me to it, waiting to see how far I'd go for him, and that was the limit. I got up and shouted at him, and he laughed – they all laughed – but he let me go. He already knew he'd gotten as much from me as he could.'

'Jackson could be like that, too,' says Stiles, voice catching a little. 'Nowhere near as bad, but he'd try and encourage me to screw other people, boast about me, try and get guys to hit on me. Sometimes I'd tell him to stop, but mostly I just – I didn't want to make a scene, and I thought, well, it's still me he comes back to, right? And it was acclimatisation, like you said. It escalated so slowly that I thought it was normal, and my friends never saw it happen –'

'– and either you didn't want them to know how bad it was,' Derek finishes, softly, 'or you were scared they'd tell you it didn't matter.'

'Yeah,' says Stiles. 'Exactly.'

They share another moment of silence, watching each other, Derek's hand on Stiles's hip, and Stiles's hand on Derek's cheek, their legs still tangled, chests not quite touching. Each of them breathes what the other exhales, the air beneath the blanket steadily heating.

'There were others,' says Derek, after a moment, 'but nobody else important, until Jen. And at first, I thought she was nice. Simple. I didn't want to tell her I was damaged, so I acted like I wasn't. Pretended. And maybe that was the problem, that she didn't know where I was coming from, or maybe she really was just like everyone else. I don't know. It's almost been a year, and I still don't know.' He laughs, sadly, and Stiles's heart breaks a little. 'She wanted things from me, wanted me to do things with her, to her, that I wasn't comfortable with. I told her I didn't want to, but not why. Not that she ever really asked; she just kept saying that if I really wanted her, loved her, wanted to be with her, I'd do it. But I wouldn't, and she kept asking, so I said we were over, and she screamed at me. Turned into this awful, vitriolic person, and I just – I was done. After that, I told myself I was done. I couldn't keep getting hurt any more. No relationships.'

He looks at Stiles, his expression utterly raw. 'I don't know if I can do this,' he says, a shake in his voice. 'I want to, I really do. But I don't want to hurt you, Stiles, and I don't – right now, I don't think you would, but part of me is absolutely terrified that one day, you'll hurt me.'

'I don't want to hurt you either,' Stiles whispers. 'Derek, I can't promise I never will, because I might do it by accident, but I promise I won't do it on purpose, that I'll be careful with you, and you can do the same with me. So let's just – let's promise to try, all right? Because that's all we can do, really. Try.'

'Okay,' says Derek, eyes roaming over Stiles's face. 'Okay.'

And the he kisses him.

It's so unbearably sweet, Stiles wants to die. His entire body lights up, scalp to soles, and he kisses back as gently as he can bear to, savouring every point of connection between them. They don't so much press as slide together, Derek shifting his weight to bracket Stiles's head with his forearms, peppering his mouth with light, teasing kisses before moving in deeply, hips rolling down in time with his tongue, until Stiles is groaning up against him, both hands buried in Derek's hair, his legs splayed wide and heels hooked over Derek's calves. They move together slowly, an exquisite, dragging torment, both of them hard and aching, precome staining the cotton. Stiles tips his head back, baring his throat, back arching with pleasure as Derek laces their fingers together, presses him down and sucks a line of hickies over the skin, his stubble rasping pleasantly over the marks.

'Fuck yes,' Stiles gasps, hips rolling up of their own accord. He wants to reach down and bring them both off, but Derek keeps him pinned, flexing his grip, and Stiles practically whimpers, the sound lost as Derek kisses him again.

'Slow,' Stiles pants, when they next break apart. 'No rushing.'

'No rushing,' Derek agrees, equally breathless. 'Slow.'

He presses their foreheads together, rutting down against Stiles, who presses up with equal need, so turned on he can barely think straight.

'Still,' Stiles says, moaning only a little as Derek sucks on his earlobe, 'we did – ahh! – we did say touching was allowed.'

Derek's pupils darken. 'True,' he says, sounding wrecked. 'Touching. Hands. Just hands.' And as if to demonstrate this point, he lifts one of his own and releases Stiles's right, the left still pinned in place.

Stiles shudders, lifting his free palm to Derek's cheek. 'Is this okay?' he asks, voice hitching as they move against each other. 'We can stop if you want –'

'Don't you dare,' Derek gasps. 'Stiles, fuck, please –'

'Okay,' he breathes, and slips his hand between them, first pulling his own cock free of his boxers, then doing the same for Derek. They're both wet, but when Stiles hovers his palm in front of Derek's face, the other man licks it without hesitation, a long stripe of that clever tongue, and then Stiles takes them both in hand, gliding them together with spit and precome. Derek almost collapses, barely catching his weight on his forearm, kissing Stiles damn near senseless as he stripes them together, long fingers curling easily around both their lengths. He already knows he won't last, and for once in his life, he doesn't care.

Derek mouths along his jaw, revisiting his hickies; Stiles tightens his grip, his pinned hand straining, and comes with a cry, white streaks shooting up his stomach. Derek inhales sharply, fucking into his fist, and follows him over the edge a few strokes later, kissing him in between breaths.

They collapse against each other, heedless of the mess. Derek lifts Stiles's captured hand and kisses the heel of his palm, smiling dazedly before letting go, his weight half-sprawled along Stiles's flank. He chuckles, nipping affectionately at Stiles's shoulder, and Stiles, who's pretty pleased himself, turns his head and kisses Derek's temple.

'Touching is good,' Stiles mumbles, feebly swatting the blanket away to let in some air.

'Touching is _very_ good.'

They glance at each other, grin, and start laughing.

'Shower?' Stiles asks, hopefully.

'Shower,' says Derek, and kisses the tip of his nose. 'And after that, breakfast.'

It's an excellent way to start the day.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Derek tugs Stiles into the shower and kisses him under the spray, hands shaking where they curve around his hips. Apart from Laura and his therapist, he's never told anyone what he just told Stiles, and the fact that he still wants him – that they still want each other; that they're going to try – has his whole body singing, his stomach in knots composed of equal parts exhilaration and anxiety. He wasn't lying about being scared, but god, he's so fucking tired of feeling lonely, of meaningless conversations with strangers who don't give a shit about half the things that interest him, and who'd never care enough to learn.

Grinning, Stiles breaks the kiss, grabs the soap from the dish and starts to gently lather Derek's torso.

'Okay,' he says. 'Real talk: if Lara Croft, Indiana Jones and RTD-era River Song got into a fight, who would win?'

'A sexy fight?' Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

'Could be,' says Stiles, running nimble fingers up his ribs.

Derek's breath hitches. 'Well, it depends on the context. Whose timeline are they in? What are the homeground advantages?'

'Mmm,' says Stiles, consdering. 'Let's say they've all unearthed a piece of the same alien technology that zaps them over to Roswell or something. They're stuck in a room, and they're arguing about who's in charge. Who wins?'

'Trick question,' says Derek, leaning in to graze his teeth against the sensitive skin below Stiles's ear. 'Dana Scully shows up and saves the day, then spends the rest of her life regretting giving Mulder a sonic screwdriver.'

Stiles groans. 'Oh my god. You're perfect. You're actually perfect.'

Something in Derek warms at the praise. He kisses Stiles again, lost in the feel and the taste of him, and when they break apart, they're both smiling.

Twenty minutes later, they finally make it out of the shower and back to the bedroom, grinning stupidly at each other as they towel off and dress. Derek glances at the clock and blinks, surprised to see that it's barely 10am.

'Damn,' Stiles says softly, staring at his phone.

'What is it?'

'Missed calls from Scott and Lydia, among others. And texts. Lots of texts. I don't want to look.' He thumbs his phone off, shoving it back in his pocket, shoulders hunched. 'I just... god, Scott fucking _knows_ now, and he oughta be pissed that I kept it from him, but he won't be, not really. He'll just want to make sure that I'm okay, because he's that good a guy, and I'll feel like shit for having lied about it.'

Derek comes to stand beside him, brushing their fingers together. 'You did what you needed to do,' he says. 'You shouldn't feel bad for that.'

'And yet,' Stiles says. He shakes his head, sighing. 'I'm sorry. I don't mean to keep bringing up my baggage –'

'Stiles.' Derek catches his gaze. 'We both have baggage. It's going to come up. And that's fine. We'll deal with it, okay?'

Stiles hesitates, biting his bottom lip, then says in a rush, 'Are we telling people we're together? Because it's fine if you don't want to, if you'd rather keep it quiet, I'd understand. You know, keep the pressure off.'

A flash of hurt stabs through Derek. Reflexively, he wants to say _of course, whatever you want_ , and almost does; the impulse to please, to hide his own upset, is deeply ingrained, and this is too new and good for him to risk it over a point of pride. But then he sees the tension in Stiles's shoulders, and – more importantly – remembers his earlier, pained admission: _I was Jackson's dirty little secret_.

Derek exhales and says, softly, 'I'm not ashamed, Stiles. You don't need to give me an out. I want to be seen with you.'

Stiles's mouth falls open. Smiling, Derek puts a fingertip under his chin and shuts it again. Stiles blinks, startled, then smiles in turn. 'I want to be seen with you, too,' he says, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. 'Uh, good catch on the insecurity, there. Communication is definitely a thing I can be bad at.'

'Me, too. I have a habit of being –' he flounders for the right word, feeling his cheeks heat with the effort of honesty, '– not accommodating, exactly, but convincing myself that what I want doesn't matter, if I think the other person wants something else.'

'You and me both, dude.'

'Takes one to know one, I guess,' says Derek, a little sadly.

'Hey,' says Stiles, and leans in, kissing the corner of his mouth. 'You totally called me on it. That's progress, right?'

Derek puts a hand on Stiles's hip, pulling him in as he kisses his temple. 'If this is progress, then why do I feel like I need a save point?'

Stiles chuckles, leaning his head on Derek's shoulder. 'God, you're a dork.' He's quiet a moment, then says, 'All right. We've identified a problem. So, let's fix it.'

Derek snorts. 'What, just like that?'

'You know what I mean. We need, like, a code word or something.'

'A code word?'

'Yeah, you know.' Stiles kisses his jaw. 'A bit of conversational shorthand, so we can check on each other without having to try and second guess what we're actually thinking. I mean, you figured out I was bluffing, but it won't always be obvious. So next time we get a moment like that, where one of us thinks the other one is holding back, they say the word, and we talk it out.'

Derek nods. 'I like that idea. And if – if one of us is getting insecure, or stressed, we could say it then, too. Let the other one know we're struggling.'

'Yeah!' says Stiles. 'Like a safe word, sort of. Only not sexy.'

'Dwarven crafts!' Derek blurts, suddenly.

Stiles stares at him. 'Non sequitur man says what now?'

Derek blushes to the roots of his hair. 'Sorry. Dumb train of thought – it's just, when I get insecure, I end up telling the same lies over and over, stuff like _I'm fine, it's okay_ , and it made me think of NPCs in old RPG games, where you talk to them and they only ever have one line of dialogue.'

'Like dwarven crafts?'

'Like dwarven crafts.'

Stiles's face breaks out in a radiant grin. 'Goddamn,' he says, 'I'm dating a hot nerd,' and draws him in for a kiss, his big hands cradling Derek's face. Derek moans a little, backing him up against the dresser, and they lose a good five minutes like that, the kiss turning sweet and slow, until they're just lipping each other.

'Dwarven crafts it is,' breathes Stiles. His fingers trail through Derek's hair, and Derek finds himself leaning into the touch.

'You still want to get breakfast?'

'Of course.'

'Okay.' Derek pulls back a little, thumbs stroking Stiles's hips. 'Either I can cook us something, or we can go out. Your call.'

'You can cook?'

'Well,' says Derek, wryly, 'I am, as they say, a grown-ass man. You pick these things up.'

'Mm,' says Stiles, smirking just a little. 'I bet you've picked up a lot of things.'

'I have,' says Derek, gravely – and before he can think to question the impulse, he slides his palms under Stiles's thighs, grabs, and lifts him bodily, stepping back from the dresser. Stiles yelps, the sound turning into laughter as he wraps his legs around Derek's waist, clinging on like a monkey.

'You fucking – _ahhh_!' shrieks Stiles, as Derek proceeds to carry him out of the bedroom, jouncing him into a slightly more comfortable hold. It's hardly an effortless manoeuvre – Stiles is almost his height, long-limbed and leanly muscled – but evidently, Derek's work-out regimen has left him equal to the task. Stiles groans, bending his head to nip at the edge of Derek's ear, and Derek makes a choked noise of pleasure, trying very hard not to stumble.

Somehow, he makes it over to the kitchen island, depositing Stiles on the edge, and then they're kissing again, as hungry and desperate as if they hadn't already gotten off. It's so distracting, Derek doesn't properly register the front door opening until it's too late.

'Oh my _god_ , that's unsanitary!' Erica squawks.

Derek breaks away from Stiles – or from his mouth, anyway; Stiles reflexively hides his face in Derek's shoulder – and gapes awkwardly at Erica and Boyd, both of whom are staring.

'In the kitchen?' Boyd asks, sounding amused. 'Really?'

'We were hungry!'

'I'll bet you were,' Erica mutters. 'You'd have kicked him out already, otherwise.'

'Um,' says Stiles, choosing this moment to life his head, 'hi?'

Erica does a double-take. ' _Stilinski?_ '

'That's my name, don't wear it out,' says Stiles, a nervous crack in his voice. Reflexively, Derek runs a soothing palm up Stiles's thigh, back and forth.

Erica clocks the gesture, looks between them and groans. 'Oh, god. Seriously, Derek? _Seriously?_ '

Derek blinks at her, confused. 'Seriously what?'

'You're unbelievable!' Erica shouts. 'I mean, Christ, it's not like I expected an apology, but fucking _Stiles_? I say you need to start dating again, and _that's_ your next move – tracking down the one guy on campus who's sluttier than you, and screwing _him_? What the fuck were you _thinking_? And you!' She rounds on Stiles before Derek can so much as blink. 'You couldn't just take the night off for once? You had to sleep with my emotionally stunted housemate? What, you've run through the pool of hot Anthro guys already?'

Stiles is frozen against him; Derek can't even speak.

'Erica, baby,' Boyd says, putting a hand on her shoulder, gaze flicking apologetically to Derek. 'You're over the line. _Way_ over.'

'The hell I am!' says Erica, eyes flashing – but then she looks at them again, and something in her stalls, the anger in her face replaced with uncertainty, as though she was expecting a fight and doesn't understand why she isn't getting one.

Ugly silence falls between them. Derek is so furious, so incalculably hurt, he can barely breathe. He slumps forward, palm still gripping Stiles's thigh, and whispers, 'I'm so sorry.'

Stiles draws a shaky breath, his own cowed posture pressing their foreheads together. 'Don't be,' he croaks. 'It's me, I'm the fuckup. I'll just – I'll go, I'll go home –'

He starts to move, trying to slide off the bench, but Derek won't let him, holding his hips in place. 'Don't you _dare_ ,' he says, and kisses him, one hand coming up to cup his jaw. Stiles makes a low, sad noise and kisses back, then breaks off, not quite smiling.

'Dwarven crafts?' he offers, shyly.

'Dwarven crafts,' Derek agrees, and kisses his cheek. He takes a moment to compose himself, squashing down the desire to yell, and when he finally looks at Erica, he's perversely satisfied to find her pale and shocked, her mouth hanging open.

'We're going out for breakfast,' Derek says, proud of how even his voice sounds. Not breaking eye contact, he steps back from the counter, leaving just enough room for Stiles to hop down, and when he does, it's more instinct than impulse to put an arm around his waist, snugging him close. Stiles follows the contact willingly, head ducked against Derek's shoulder.

'You guys are together?' Boyd asks – no judgement, no mockery. Boyd is his _favourite_.

'Yes,' says Derek. 'We are.'

Astonishingly, Boyd smiles: the rare, broad grin he normally reserves for special occasions. 'Congratulations,' he says, and there's warmth enough in his tone that Stiles looks up, blinking in surprise.

'Damn straight,' says Derek, just as Stiles says, 'Thanks,' and then they're moving, Derek grabbing his wallet, keys and phone as they head to the door.

They're almost over the threshold when Erica calls out, high and strained, 'I'm sorry!'

Derek hesitates. It's a conversation that's going to have to happen at some point, but damned if that means now.

'So am I,' he says, and leads Stiles out into the morning.

Neither of them looks back.

 


	7. Chapter 7

The thing is, Stiles likes Erica. She's snarky and fun and she doesn't take anyone's crap, and it's not like she just said anything about him that they haven't joked about a dozen times before. Right? Objectively, there's no reason for him to be shaking like this, his whole body burning with shame. Objectively, he should be fine.

But he's not fine, and he makes it all of a block from the house before he has to stop, inhaling deep and fast as Derek strokes his back, murmuring apologies and comfort in equal measure.

'I don't get it,' Stiles says, shutting his eyes. 'I don't – I say that stuff about  _ myself _ , dude. Why the fuck does this hurt so much?' 

'Because,' says Derek, and hesitates, which is when Stiles realises he already knows the answer.

'Because,' he sighs, resting his forehead on Derek's collarbone, 'she meant it as an insult. Or, well. Maybe not as an  _ insult _ , exactly, but she definitely wasn't joking.'

'If I thought she'd go off at you like that –'

'It's not your fault.'

'But I should've –'

'Hey, no. Stop it.' Stiles straightens, curling his fingers lightly against the nape of Derek's neck. 'You did everything right, okay? I mean, yeah, that sucked, but they know we're dating now, and Boyd seemed cool with it, so let's just –' he takes a deep breath, managing a small smile, '– let's just go get breakfast, and make random strangers jealous with how hot we are together. Okay?'

Derek's expression wavers, and then he leans in, kissing the corner of Stiles's mouth. It's a chaste, gentle thing, and yet Stiles flushes all over, breath hitching at the contact. 'Okay,' Derek murmurs.

It's a bright, sunny Saturday, and once they get away from the residential areas, the streets are busy with foot-traffic, the cafés and coffeeshops bustling with customers. Stiles doesn't remember making a conscious decision to hold Derek's hand, and yet that's exactly what he's doing, towing his boyfriend through the crowds in search of a decent breakfast. They talk easily, the sting of Erica's judgement washed away by a spirited discussion about why  _ Princess Mononoke, Laupta _ and  _ Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind _ are all set in the same timeline (which, they both agree, they totally are), and after about twenty minutes, they find themselves being seated in a café of Derek's choosing. It's called Owl & Lark, and while Stiles hasn't been there before, it wins him over more or less instantly when it turns out to sell sweet potato curly fries.

Breakfast or not, Stiles orders a serve, along with bacon, pancakes and a vanilla shake, while Derek gets coffee and eggs benedict. Their table is wedged in a corner, Stiles beside a window and a wall at Derek's back, and even moreso than over dinner last night, it's impossible to keep their legs from touching. So Stiles, being Stiles, just goes with it, grinning as he rubs an ankle slowly up the side of Derek's calf.

Derek looks surprised, then laughs. 'Footsie? Really?'

'It's a classic!'

'Hard to argue with that,' says Derek, and slyly reciprocates.

Stiles blushes, palms pressed flat to the tabletop, and tries to remember how language works. He can't look away from Derek, and even if he could, he doesn't want to. They're both grinning, quiet laughter spilling between them as somehow, ridiculously, the footsie turns into a competition to see who'll crack first.

'You know,' says Stiles, striving for a casual tone, 'we haven't discussed what's happening after breakfast.'

Derek raises an eyebrow. 'Oh? You had something in mind?'

'Well, why not? I've got no plans, and I'm assuming you're free.'

'I could have plans,' says Derek, in the guarded tone of someone used to being teased for his lack of same.

Stiles melts a little, because apparently, that's what he does now. 'And you  _ do _ , dumbass,' he says, squeezing Derek's hand. 'You're looking at a fully-formed, plan-shaped person sitting right here, asking you out on a date. Let's – fuck it.' He grins broadly. 'Let's go to the zoo.'

Derek blinks. 'The zoo?'

'What, you don't like animals, Mister I'm-Writing-My-Thesis-On-The-Awesomeness-Of-Wolves?  _ Everyone _ likes the zoo!' 

'You really want to?' he says, sceptically. 'I mean, the zoo? With _me_?'

Stiles's face falls. 'It was just an idea, we don't have to do anything. I only –'

'No, no – shit!' Derek scrubs his face with the heel of his palm. 'Dwarven crafts, sorry. I'm just – I'm honestly a little amazed you want to spend any more time with me, especially after what Erica pulled. I mean, I'm not –' his shoulders hunch, '– I'm not boring you, or anything?'

By way of answer, Stiles leans across the table and kisses him as deeply as the awkward angle allows. 'You're really not,' he murmurs, pushing a strand of hair behind Derek's ear.

'I'll take your word for it,' says Derek, a little breathlessly. He smiles as Stiles resumes his seat, and then says, 'So, uh. Zoo?'

'Zoo,' says Stiles – at which point, their food arrives, and conversation takes an immediate back seat to eating.

The sweet potato curly fries are a goddamn revelation; so much so that, when Stiles's phone rings in the middle of his third mouthful, he doesn't even think about picking up.

Derek snorts. 'Your ringtone is Uptown Funk?'

'It used to be Shake It Off, but Scott made me change it.'

'I wonder why,' Derek says, dryly. 'You're not going to answer it?'

'Nope,' says Stiles, and takes another handful of curly fries, moaning as they melt in his mouth. 'Oh my god, you have to try these. They're _amazing_.'

Rolling his eyes, Derek takes a fry, holding it up in a contemplative posture before making a show of eating it. The look of surprised pleasure that subsequently spreads across his face is a memory Stiles will treasure. Derek makes a grab for the bowl, but Stiles yanks it out of reach, curling an arm protectively around it.

'Nuh-uh! You mocked the fries, dude. You were _mocking._ '

'I was not!'

'And now,' says Stiles, impishly flourishing another handful, 'you have to do without.'

'Hardass,' Derek mutters, but his lips twitch as he digs into his eggs.

Barely ten seconds after it finally stops ringing, Stiles's phone starts up again. He groans, checking the screen. It's Lydia, and as much as he's planning on an epic gossip session with her at some point in the near future, now is not that time. _She'd understand if she was here,_ he thinks, and declines the call, putting the phone on vibrate before pocketing it again.

He's on his second mouthful of pancakes and bacon when she calls again, the vibration setting strong enough that Derek can apparently hear the buzzing, if the way his eyebrows raise are anything to go by.

'It's Lydia,' says Stiles, taking a sip of his shake. 'She probably wants to check in with me about last night, make sure you didn't murder me or anything.'

'Well, don't feel you have to ignore her on my account.'

'I don't. I just –' the buzzing continues, and Stiles makes a face, '– oh, fine. Be like that!'

Derek pokes out his tongue.

Sighing, Stiles sets down his utensils and answers the phone. 'Lydia, I'm fine, you don't have to keep –'

'Stiles!' Lydia snaps, and something in her tone stops him dead. 'I'm really, really glad you're all right, but that's not why I'm calling.'

Ugly premonition curdles through him. 'What is it? What happened?'

'Stiles, it's not your fault, I need you to remember that, okay? Nothing he's ever done has been your fault –'

' _What happened?_ '

'Jackson overdosed last night,' says Lydia, quietly. 'A drug cocktail, they're not sure exactly what he took, but either way, it was too much. He's – they got him to hospital, but he's not –' he can practically hear the bitten lip, '– they don't think he's going to wake up.'

The whole world freezes around him. Stiles's vision swims, Lydia's urgent voice fading away as he lowers the phone to the table, unable to speak. Dimly, he's aware of Derek reaching out for him, taking the phone in one hand as he grounds Stiles with the other, his eyes going wide as he talks to Lydia.

'Oh god,' Stiles whispers. 'Oh god. Oh god.'

Derek grips his hand, not looking away, which is just about the only thing keeping Stiles from completely falling apart. He doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry or just throw up, because Jackson was – _is_ , is, _he's not fucking dead, he's not going to_ die – so many different things to him, but before the drugs and the abuse, he was the guy who took Stiles's virginity, his first real boyfriend; maybe even the first non-family member he'd ever loved, given that Lydia had started out as more obsession than romance, and the prospect of losing him like this – _I wanted him gone and whole, not dead_ – is like having a skewer twisted through his lungs.

Derek hangs up the phone, shoving it into his own pocket. Numb, Stiles watches as he fishes out a generous handful of notes – more than enough to cover both their meal and the tip – and wedges them under his plate.

'Stiles?' says Derek, softly. 'Do you want to go see him? Lydia told me where he is.'

Stiles nods dumbly, clinging on to his hand. His legs feel weak, but somehow he manages to stand, letting Derek lead him gently outside, their unfinished breakfast forgotten.

 

*

 

It only takes Derek a couple of minutes to hail a cab, but the wait feels like an eternity. Stiles leans on him the whole time, then promptly folds up into the back like a broken clotheshorse, his only vocalisations small, choked sounds that sit somewhere at the crossroads of grief and anger. Derek himself feels nauseated, furiously impotent at the past transgressions and present idiocy of Jackson Whittemore. The man he saw at the party – or glimpsed, really; even during their confrontation, Derek's attention had been fixed elsewhere – was pale, sharp, haughty, his voice rich with the cutting inflections of someone wholly unused to being told no, and if it wasn't for the fact that he'd upset Stiles, Derek would never have given him a second glance.

He wishes he had, now. It's harder to be angry at someone whose face he can barely picture.

Beside him, Stiles lets out a moan and twists his fingers together, prompting Derek to scooch across the seat and put an arm around him. Stiles leans into the curve of his body, shivering like he's trapped in a snowstorm.

'I should've heard him out,' he says, voice shaking. 'Jesus, I yelled at him, I sent him away, he wanted to apologise and I sent him _away_ –'

'Don't,' says Derek, firmly. 'This isn't your fault. He had no right approaching you like that, and this, what he's done – that's all on him, not you.'

'Rationally, I know that. Rationally.' Stiles makes a noise that isn't quite a sob. 'And yet.'

Derek holds him closer, and doesn't speak.

They're at the hospital within fifteen minutes, and as they pull up in the cab rank – Stiles tries to pay the driver, but Derek swats his hand away and gets in first – he spies Lydia waiting for them on the curb. She's dressed in a pretty floral print and ballet flats, her hair in immaculate curls, but though she's tried to hide it, her mascara is smudged with tears. Stiles hiccups at the sight of her, and the second he's out of the cab, it's like gravity turns sideways for a moment: they don't so much walk as fall against each other, Lydia's arms hugged tight around Stiles's neck, and Derek just stands behind them feeling utterly, painfully useless.

Then Lydia lifts her chin and _looks_ at him, a piercing expression that's equal parts relief and evaluation. Tossing her hair, she steps gingerly away from Stiles, squeezes both his shoulders, then marches straight over to Derek and hugs him, too. The tight embrace takes Derek aback; she's almost a full foot shorter than him, but like his sisters, she's deceptively strong. Uncertain of what to do, he skims his hands over her shoulderblades, and when she pulls away, she tilts her chin and blinks up at him, a watery smile on her face.

'Thank you,' she says.

Puzzled, Derek asks, 'For what?'

'For last night. For making him happy. For – for bringing him here.' She laughs, a sad, breathy sound, and thumbs fresh tears from the corner of one eye. 'He, uh. He really needs someone right now.'

'I'm not going anywhere,' says Derek, and flicks his gaze to Stiles, who's hugging himself and staring forlornly at the two of them, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy. Not waiting for Lydia to respond, he walks over to his boyfriend (ignoring, on the grounds of inappropriate timing, the thrill that goes through him at the nomenclature) and gently cups his elbows, dropping a kiss on his forehead.

'I'm right here,' he says. 'Whatever you need, I'm here, okay?'

'Okay,' Stiles whispers.

'Follow me, then,' says Lydia, marching past them, and when Stiles takes his hand, Derek is helpless to disobey.

'Who else is here?' Stiles asks, when they're in the elevator. 'I mean, are his parents around, or –?'

'They're flying back from Europe,' Lydia says. Her lip trembles briefly, but she tamps it down. 'Probably won't get here until this evening. Danny's here, obviously. And – and Scott, too.'

'Scott's here?' says Stiles, surprised.

'And Allison. I called them first, when I was looking for you. I thought you might be at home.'

Derek's stomach twists. 'Scott's dating Allison?' he asks, mouth suddenly dry. 'Allison Argent?'

'Yes?' says Lydia, blinking at the question. 'Why, do you know her?'

'Not personally, no.' He's surprised by how calm he feels. 'I mean, I knew she went to school here, that she was friends with Erica's friends, but not – nothing more than that.' He hesitates, aware of the potential can of worms he's opening, and says, softly, 'I knew her aunt, once. Kate.'

Happily, the name means nothing to Lydia, but Stiles does a double-take. ' _Kate_ Kate?' he says, looking at Derek with wide, shocked eyes. 'Kate who's in _jail_ Kate?'

'That would be her.'

'Oh my god,' says Stiles, and clutches his hand so hard, it's almost bruising. 'Derek, does she _know_? Because you don't have to come in, I'll be okay, I can totally handle this –'

'It's fine,' says Derek, as the lift pings open. Stiles exits under his own steam, then plants his feet in the lobby, looking expectantly at Derek, who sighs. 'Honestly, Stiles, it's not important right now. She might not recognise me, but she knows I live with Erica, and from everything I've ever heard, she's a perfectly nice person. I doubt she's going to make a fuss, and I'm sure as hell not about to. Okay?'

Stiles looks like he wants to cry. 'But it isn't fair on you. You shouldn't – _Jesus_ , Derek, my life is a fucking _mess_ , you shouldn't have to deal with this shit –'

'Dwarven crafts, Stiles.'

Stiles snaps his mouth shut, then shudders forwards, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck, his face pressed into his shoulder.

'God,' Stiles chokes out, 'I take it back, that's a fucking terrible codeword.'

Derek kisses Stiles's hair, hands curled around his hips. 'You have died of dysentery,' he murmurs. 'Your princess is in another castle.'

Stiles shakes with grief and laughter. 'You absolute _ass_ , Derek –'

'Zerg rush, maybe?'

'Christ,' says Stiles, and yanks him in for a kiss, quick and rough and tearful. It only lasts a second or so, but when Stiles pulls away, he looks somehow steadier, for all his eyes are wet.

'Not to interrupt,' says Lydia, with just a touch of frost, 'but are you coming at all?'

'Yeah, shit,' says Stiles, grabbing Derek's hand and hauling him forwards. 'Sorry, Lyds. I'm here.'

'I know,' she says, more softly – but still, she shoots Derek a meaningful look before heading on up the righthand corridor.

Several twists and turns later, she comes to a halt in a private waiting room, the armchairs of which are occupied by three three barely-familiar figures: Danny, his eyes red from crying; a dark-haired man with a crooked jaw who must, by power of deduction, be Scott; and a pretty, pale brunette who's unmistakably Allison Argent. Derek's chest tightens, but he shoves the fear away, relegating himself to the role of supportive observer as Stiles steps forward, letting go of his hand.

'How is he?' Stiles croaks out.

'Dude,' says Scott, looking for all the world like he wants to leap up and hug his friend, but Allison holds him back with a minute shake of her head. Instead, it's Danny who stands, and Danny who answers, tears streaming down his cheeks.

'He's not coming back,' he says, the words getting caught in a sob. 'Stiles, he's never coming back.'

Stiles goes rigid. 'No. No, Danny, c'mon, man, this is _Jackson_ , he always pulls this shit and he always –'

'Not this time. He fried himself, he's fucking –'

'No _no_ –'

'– braindead, Stiles, they've got him on life support, but once his parents get here –'

' _No_ –'

'– they'll take him off, because he can't, he won't wake up from this –'

'Danny –'

'– we just have to say goodbye.'

'No,' says Stiles, weakly, and Derek's heart breaks for the both of them, because Danny looks wrecked, and Stiles is shaking, and it doesn't matter who chose who, they don't deserve to go through this; no one does.

'It's my fault,' Danny says, voice breaking. 'We fought, I let him go off alone, I thought he just needed to calm down, but I should've known better –'

'Bullshit,' Stiles says. He's crying, too, now – they all are; even Derek. 'That's absolute crap, and you know it. He was an _addict_ , okay? This isn't on you, and it isn't on me. He did it to himself, the same way he always does everything. Always – always has to have the last fucking word. So don't destroy yourself for him. It's bad enough he broke one of us; he shouldn't get the set.'

'Fucking Jackson!' Lydia says, her voice thin and furious. 'Fuck him, fuck him for everything, fuck him for leaving us all to clean up his shit, _again_ –' and then her voice gives out, dissolving into sobs. As one, Stiles and Danny move to hold her; Lydia reaches for both of them, and it's like watching a building collapse; the three of them go down on their knees, clutching each other, and Derek, like Scott and Allison, can only bear witness, cold with the spread of secondhand grief and the promise of loss to come.

 


	8. Chapter 8

It feels like such a fucking cliché to think that Jackson looks small in the hospital bed, but that doesn't stop him from thinking it. Even though Stiles is taller, Jackson – the _real_ Jackson, not what's left to lie there now, slack-faced and silent – always managed to seem bigger, projecting the same sort of smug, self-assured energy as a big cat, like the only reason he didn't reach out and swat you away was pure lazy indulgence. The metaphor makes him wince, remembering all the times Jackson did more than just swat him; all the times he left Stiles with bruises to hide and hospital visits he prays his dad never hears about. His throat feels so tight, he can barely breathe, and for a blind, furious moment, he just wants to grab Jackson's shoulders and shake him, slap him, wake him up, demand an explanation for why he was so selfish, so goddamn _stupid_ as to leave them all like this.

But he doesn't, because Jackson isn't coming back, and there are no such answers to be had.

'You idiot, Jacks,' Stiles says, fingertips ghosting his cheek. 'You and your fucking pride. You could've had anything in the whole damn world, if you'd only swallowed your pride. But this?' His left hand clenches into a fist, while the right smooths Jackson's hair. 'You never deserved me, you sure as hell never deserved Lydia, and Danny's done some shitty things, but he shouldn't have to watch you die. You were meant to get _better_ , you asshole! And maybe, maybe if you'd given me time – maybe if you hadn't fucking shown up out of nowhere last night, if you'd just – just – maybe, one day, I could've forgiven you. Not all the way, I was never going to do that, but enough so that you and me and Danny and Lydia could maybe all stand to be in the same room at the ten year reunion without some Veronica Mars-type bullshit going down, you know?'

He laughs, scrubbing angry tears off his cheeks. 'Well, fuck that, and fuck you. I'm not watching you die. You don't – you don't get that from me, okay? Just this once, Jackson, I'm getting the last word, because I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry that living with the burden of all your shitty mistakes made you think this was the best course of action, but that doesn't make me sorry enough to stay here for the finale. So.'

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, tense against the moment. Every choice he makes at this point is going to feel like the wrong one, because the only option that could possibly feel right is for Jackson to wake up and _not be fucking braindead_ , and as two quiet nurses and a neurosurgeon have already explained, that isn't going to happen. He's always going to wonder if he should've done something different, but even knowing that now, he still has to make a decision.

Sucking in air, Stiles looks at Jackson one last time. Without its typical, sneering animation, his face looks even more boyish than normal. Soft, as he was never soft in waking.

Trembling, Stiles leans in and kisses Jackson's cheek.

'Goodbye, Jacks,' he whispers.

And then he leaves.

 

*

 

'We're going,' says Stiles, slamming back into the waiting room.

Derek is on his feet in an instant. As much as he wants to be supportive, sitting around a hospital with four grieving people he doesn't actually know, all of whom are starting to look at him with varying degrees of curiosity, is hardly how he likes to spend his time. Still, the shocked expressions this announcement produces from the room's other occupants make him hesitate, one palm hovering over Stiles's shoulder.

'Are you sure?' he asks, quietly.

'Yes.' Stiles looks Derek in the eye, his gaze red-rimmed and wet. He's shaking, but his jaw is firm. 'I've done what I came to do, and that's it.' He turns to Scott, who looks physically pained. 'She told you? Lydia told you everything?'

Scott winces. 'Yeah, Stiles. I get it. I'll – I'll stay, though, if that's cool. It feels like the right thing to do, you know? For me, I mean,' he adds quickly, 'I'm not judging you, I just –'

'It's okay,' says Stiles. 'No judgement.'

The two of them share a not-quite-smile, and into the silence, Lydia says, 'I'll call you. When it – when it's over. I'll call you.'

'Thanks, Lyds,' Stiles says, hoarsely.

Allison doesn't say anything, but she offers Stiles a brief, understanding nod while squeezing Scott's hand, and as small as the gesture is, it goes a long way to reassuring Derek that she's nothing like her aunt.

Which only leaves Danny, who looks like he's been gutshot.

'Please,' he says. Stiles flinches at the word, his shoulder pressing back into Derek's chest.

'No, dude. I can't – I'm not doing this, okay? I've said goodbye. I'm done.'

'He'd want you here,' says Danny, helplessly. He's twisting his engagement ring around his finger, and has been for long enough now that the skin's gone red. 'Stiles, please –'

'I don't give a fuck what he'd want,' says Stiles, low and sharp. The words hit the room like a slap. 'And you don't get to try and guilt trip me into staying, not like that; not you of all people. That _asshole_ –' he stabs a finger in the direction of Jackson's room, '– once kicked me down a flight of stairs and threatened to put powered glass in my food if I told anyone, and the next day, he barely remembered it, he was _so fucking sorry_ , but I still threw out everything we had in the fridge, because god only knows what he did while I was in the ER. I'm sorry I ever loved him. I'm sorry _you_ love him, and I'm sorry he's going to die, but no power on this earth, Danny, can compel me to stay in this _fucking_ room and wait to make nice to his parents like they didn't raise an entitled, callous jackass!'

He's practically shouting by the end, his voice hoarse, and when Danny doesn't respond – just sits there, grey-faced and grieving – Derek puts an arm around Stiles, pulling him close.

'Come on,' he murmurs. 'I'll take you home.'

Stiles sags against him, clinging onto his shirt, and as Derek shepherds him out of the room, he catches first Scott's gaze, then Lydia's, nodding at the pair of them. To his surprise, they both nod back – as does Allison, though Derek hadn't made eye contact with her – and then they're gone, hidden from sight as he leads Stiles into the corridor, his own heart a snarl of conflicting emotions.

How would he react, if someone asked him to sit a death-watch for Kate or Duke or Jen? Derek can't imagine that he'd even make it inside the hospital, let alone all the way to the bedside, and while it's not exactly a perfect comparison – he never loved any of his abusers, they weren't part of his social group, he didn't go to school with them – it's close enough to make his stomach churn.

He finds his way back to the lobby on autopilot, Stiles still holding onto him like a limpet. Once they're in the lift, which is otherwise empty, Derek braces himself in a corner and pulls Stiles into a proper hug, trying to offer as much comfort as he can.

Almost inaudibly, Stiles asks, 'Am I a terrible person?'

Derek shuts his eyes, overwhelmed by a sudden rush of protectiveness. 'Stiles –'

'I just, I'm not brave enough, you know? I can't do it. But I should've tried, I shouldn't have yelled –'

'No, baby. No. No.' Derek hugs him tight, pressing a hard kiss to Stiles's forehead. 'You did everything right, you were brave, you stood up for yourself. You said goodbye. You did everything right.'

Stiles chokes on a sob, and when the lift opens again, Derek guides them straight to the cab rank and into the back seat of the first car available.

'Where to?' asks the driver.

Stiles is curled sideways across the seat, his head in Derek's lap. He gives his address in a monotone, and for a mercy, the driver doesn't comment; just flashes Derek a sympathetic look in the rear-view mirror and sets off.

There's a lump in Derek's throat, hard and unyielding. He doesn't know what to say that might help, and so defaults to stroking Stiles's hair, his fingers carding gently through the soft brown strands. Stiles has one arm around his waist, the other gripping his leg, and while it's hardly the safest way to drive, they make it to their destination without incident.

As before, Derek pays for the ride – it's not like he can't afford it, though it uses up the last of his cash – and helps Stiles out onto an unfamiliar street. They're still close to the university, but on the opposite side of campus; the bulk of the buildings are cheap apartment complexes, and after a moment of hesitation, Stiles starts moving towards the nearest one, shakily dragging a keyring out of his pocket.

'You want me to come in?' Derek asks, uncertain of the etiquette but desperately hoping for a yes, because the thought of leaving Stiles in his current state is unbearable.

Stiles hesitates, the key still in the lock. 'You don't have to,' he says, softly. 'That's not dwarven crafts, I mean it. You've already gone above and beyond.'

'I want to help,' Derek says. 'If you'd rather be alone, I'll understand, but if not –'

'Please stay.' Stiles gulps, his expression utterly raw. 'I don't want to be alone.'

Derek's heart twists. 'You're not,' he says.

The door unlocks, and Stiles leads him inside.


	9. Chapter 9

Stiles has never been more grateful to live on the second floor. The distance between the main entrance and his apartment is neither so long that the silence between him and Derek grows awkward, nor so short that, by the time he's opening up his door, he hasn't had time to think of what to say. As Derek follows him in, he feels strangely calm, like he's entered some wrung-out space between grief and acceptance.

Quietly, Derek steps up behind him, and Stiles leans back against his chest, settling his head on Derek's shoulder. Twining their fingers together, Stiles pulls Derek's arms around him, and for a moment, they just stand like that, as easy as if they've been doing it forever.

'If I asked you to come to bed with me,' says Stiles, striving to keep his tone light, 'would that be a problem?'

Derek pauses. 'That depends,' he says, slowly.

'On what?'

'On why you're asking.' He lets go of Stiles's hands, spinning him until they're face to face, his palms resettling on his hips. 'I want you,' Derek says, the simple declaration shivering them both. 'I can't imagine what you're feeling right now, and I want to help, but I don't want to be a convenient distraction. I don't –' he looks away, clearly struggling, then says, 'I don't want to be just a body any more.'

'You're not,' says Stiles, his mouth gone dry. His heart is thrumming, tension sparking in every nerve. 'I don't want a distraction, not like that. I mean, there's a lot I don't want to think about right now, but it's not...' He lifts a hand, cupping Derek's cheek. 'I want everything that isn't you to go away. I just want this. Just you.' He swallows, the sound of it too loud in his ears. 'Is that okay?'

Derek makes a tiny noise, like he's struggling to breathe. 'You have me,' he says, thickly, and turns his head, kissing the heel of Stiles's palm.

Stiles scans Derek's face, drinking in his expression, making sure he's really on board with this, fingertips tracing the line of his cheek. Derek inhales, lips parted in a not-quite-plea as Stiles pulls him in for a kiss. He makes it slow and deep, his fingers coming up to sink through Derek's hair, their bodies melting together. Derek lets him set the pace, fingers flexing against his hips, and that's when Stiles makes his second decision, pulse leaping at the thrill of it.

Wordlessly, he breaks the kiss and takes Derek's hand, leading him into his bedroom. For once, his bed is fully made up, the sheets fresh – even he hasn't slept in them yet – and part of him feels stupidly grateful for it, this small touch of clean and comfort. The rest of the room, of course, looks vaguely like a small tornado just exploded a combined graphic tee stand and bookshop, but Derek doesn't say anything about it, and Stiles forgets to be self-conscious.

Fingers trembling, he lifts the hem of Derek's shirt and pulls it up over his head, the soft fabric dragging against his arms. Stiles steps closer, gulping as he goes to his knees, and Derek's eyes widen, both of them breathing hard as Stiles unlaces his shoes. He does it without breaking eye contact, nimbly loosing the knots, nudging Derek to lift his feet, pulling his socks off, fingertips trailing across the skin – and only then, when Derek is barefoot, does Stiles reach up and undo his jeans.

'Stiles,' Derek breathes, 'I thought – you said –'

'I said I wanted you to come to bed,' says Stiles, easing the jeans over Derek's hips and down, until they're pooled on the floor. Stiles's touch is light on his legs, guiding him free of the denim, and at that point, it's impossible to miss that Derek's hard in his boxer briefs. He looks up again, pulls off his own shirt, and smiles for the first time in what feels like years. 'I never said I wanted you to do all the work.'

Derek groans as Stiles removes his boxers, stepping free of them without prompting. His cock is thick and uncut, and Stiles takes a moment to fully appreciate it, sliding his palms up and down Derek's thighs.

And then he leans in and takes him in his mouth, looking up through his lashes at the play of emotions over Derek's face. He's so fucking beautiful, just the thought of making him come undone would be enough to get Stiles hard, if he wasn't already. As it is, lust surges through him, coupled with need and an absolute feeling of rightness. So much has happened in such a short space of time, it seems impossible that they've only just met, but it has, and they have, and right now, Stiles wants nothing more than to explore every inch of Derek Hale; to render him strung out and sated, until he can't possibly doubt how much Stiles wants him.

Reaching up, he takes one of Derek's hands and guides it to the back of his head, giving him permission. Derek makes a breathy noise and grips his hair, and Stiles moans encouragement, taking him deep in his throat, then pulls back to suckle the head, savouring the taste of precome. Derek stares down at him, pupils blown, mouth hanging open as Stiles slides a hand behind his balls, rubbing a teasing fingertip against his perineum.

'Fuck,' Derek gasps, hips thrusting forwards, and Stiles opens wider to accommodate him, slick lips wrapped around his shaft. They settle into a rhythm, Derek shallowly fucking his mouth while Stiles puts his tongue to good use, his own cock aching and neglected.

'Want to touch you,' Derek chokes out. 'Stiles, please –'

With a final suck, Stiles pulls off him and stands, arms curling around Derek's neck as the other man kisses him hungrily, hands hurrying to undress him. Stiles kicks off his shoes a half-second before Derek yanks his jeans and boxers down, shedding his socks as he stumbles back towards the bed. His knees hit the mattress, and then he's pulling Derek on top of him, legs wrapped around his waist as they rut against each other.

Stiles is so turned on that when Derek finally touches his cock, he bows up off the bed and makes a noise that ought to be downright embarrassing, except that Derek responds by sucking hard on his bottom lip, kissing up the line of Stiles's jaw.

'What do you want?' Derek whispers. 'Tell me what you want.'

'You,' Stiles gasps. 'Just you.'

Derek chuckles, though the sound comes out hitched. 'Anything more specific?'

'Yeah,' says Stiles, and grips Derek's forearms, rolling them over. Though Derek goes willingly, the motion clearly takes him by surprise, and just like that, he's looking up at Stiles, lips parted, muscled chest heaving. Stiles leans in and kisses beside his ear, voice low and rough. 'I want to make you come so hard, you see galaxies NASA hasn't named yet. That sound good to you?'

' _Please_ ,' says Derek, already wrecked.

'Please what?' says Stiles, gently biting his earlobe. 'What do _you_ want, Derek? Because there's a lot of things I could do to achieve that end. For instance, I could blow you.' He sucks a hickey onto his neck, loving the way Derek shivers. 'Ride you.' He trails his lips across the hollow of his throat. 'Rim you.' He slides his mouth up, nipping at the underside of his jaw. 'I could open you up, make you come with just my fingers.' He runs a hand up Derek's chest, thumbing at the hard nub of a nipple – but when as he goes to speak again, Derek gets in first.

'Fuck me,' he says, the words soft and rushed, 'would you fuck me?'

Stiles pauses, meeting Derek's gaze, and for the first time since coming home, he remembers they've been trying not to rush. _Trying,_ he thinks, _and failing spectacularly._ He rests his palm on the juncture of Derek's neck and shoulder, thumb stroking lightly at his throat. 'I will,' he says, 'if you're sure it's what you want.'

Uncertainty flickers across Derek's face. 'You don't want to?'

Stiles kisses the corner of his mouth. 'I absolutely want to,' he murmurs, rocking down against him. 'But not so long ago, we said we were waiting.'

'Oh,' says Derek, in a slightly dazed tone that suggests he, too, had forgotten this. 'Right.'

Stiles shifts his position, both of them gasping as their slick cocks rub together. This time, it's Derek who kisses him, curling his hand around the back of Stiles's neck, and for a moment, the conversation falters as they move against each other, sweat-skinned and needy.

'Third date rule,' gasps Derek, strong hands running possessively over Stiles's shoulders. 'That's how long you're meant to wait, right? Three dates?'

'Yeah,' says Stiles, stifling a groan. 'Yeah, that's what Scott and Lydia say.'

'We had dinner,' Derek says, dropping frantic kisses along Stiles's neck. 'That's one.'

'And breakfast,' Stiles pants, catching on. 'Breakfast counts, that's two.'

'Which makes this three,' says Derek, grabbing Stiles's hips. 'Third date rule. We're good.'

They kiss again, hard and desperate, and when they break apart, Stiles rocks back on his heels and reaches across to the bedside table, pulling out lube and a condom.

'How do you want to do this?' he asks, running a hand up Derek's side. 'How do you want me?'

Derek bites his lip. 'Would you – can I roll over?'

'Fuck yes,' breathes Stiles, and shifts out of the way, heart pounding as Derek slowly turns onto his stomach, weight resting on his knees and forearms. The line of his back is gorgeous, curving into an ass that can only be described as perfect. Stiles kneels between his legs, fingertips trailing from shoulder to hip, the gentle touch making Derek shudder.

Stiles leans over him, biting the nape of his neck. 'God, you're amazing,' he murmurs. Derek makes a plaintive noise, and Stiles grins, kissing down his spine, and reaches for the lube.

 

*

 

It's been a long damn time since Derek's done this, but when Stiles sinks a finger into him, he's hard-pressed to remember why. He drops his head, moaning into a pillow, fingers clutching at the sheets.

'I've got you,' Stiles murmurs, one hand stroking his thigh. 'I've got you.'

Derek shuts his eyes, losing himself in the sensation. His heart is pounding, sweat trickling down his back as Stiles works him open with long, strong fingers, every nudge to his prostate like sparks in his blood. Before long, he's shaking, cock dripping precome onto the covers as Stiles slides three fingers expertly in and out of him, quiet praise falling from his lips, his free hand stroking featherlight against his flank, hip, thigh.

Derek's been with a lot of people, but he can count on one hand how many of them have ever treated him like this – gently, reverently, like he's not just some muscle-bound top – and still have digits to spare.

'Please,' he rasps, his voice hoarse with wanting. 'Stiles, _please_.'

Stiles leans over him again, lipping the sensitive skin behind his ear. 'You want me in you, big guy? Want me to fill you up?'

' _Yes_ ,' Derek groans, and Stiles makes a similarly heartfelt noise in response.

'Wish I could fuck you bare,' he murmurs, kissing Derek's shoulder. 'Never done that before. But safety first, first.'

Derek's cock jerks sharply at the image, and Stiles laughs, fingers slipping free as he reaches for the condom. There's a crinkle as he opens the wrapper, followed by the click of the lube cap as he slicks himself up, and in that moment, Derek feels something in him settle. This isn't Stiles using him, and it isn't Derek using himself: it's pleasure and need and pure, simple want. He _wants_ this and, more importantly, _knows_ he wants it, the certainty bone-deep, and as Stiles starts to push into him, he shudders, gasping out a sound he doesn't know how to name.

'Fuck,' Stiles whispers. He bottoms out, hips flush to Derek's ass, and drapes himself over Derek's back, hands curling around his shoulders. 'Tell me, tell me when I can –'

' _Move_ , Stiles.'

And he does: slowly at first, each stroke paired with a kiss to Derek's back, until he's upright again, gripping his hips. He stills for a moment, breathing ragged, and the pause is too much: Derek pushes back against him, desperate, and Stiles makes a punched-out noise, his fingers digging in.

'Jesus,' he groans, and starts to fuck him in earnest – long, hard strokes as he picks up the pace, his strong hands pinning Derek in place. Derek moans, collapsing onto his forearms, pressed to the sheets as he gasps and shakes, toes curling in a futile attempt to brace himself. He can feel his orgasm building, coiling low and hot in his core, the pleasure mounting with each thrust. And then Stiles pushes forward, changing the angle of his hips just so, and suddenly Derek's crying out, shaking and shuddering as Stiles nails his prostate over and over, coming untouched for the first time in years and so damn hard that he really does see galaxies, vision whiting out as Stiles fucks him through it, coming in turn with a ragged shout.

They collapse together, sweat-drenched and sticky. Stiles pulls out of him with a sigh, and Derek dimly notes the distinctive, rubbery sound of a condom being knotted and thrown before Stiles curls around him, chest to back, chuckling into his shoulder.

'Holy fuck,' says Derek, faintly. 'Holy _fuck_.'

' _Yes_ ,' Stiles mumbles fervently, wrapping an arm around him. 'I rate that an eleven on a scale that heretofore went to ten.'

'Heretofore?'

'Shut up, it's totally a word.'

'Is not.'

'Is too!'

'Shhh,' says Derek, smiling into the pillow. 'Afterglow.'

'Mmm,' Stiles agrees, dropping a lazy kiss on his shoulder, and even though he's sprawled in the wet spot, Derek falls straight asleep.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles doesn't sleep, but he's not quite awake, either. He's drifting, eyes closed, the skin of his back cooling as the rest of him warms against Derek. He breathes him in, salt and sex and sweat, and nestles closer, face pressed between his shoulders. Muzzy with endorphins, pulse still thrumming, it takes a while for him to come back to himself. He clings to Derek, refusing the reality of anything and everything else, but in this as in so many other respects, his brain is a goddamn traitor, and after fifteen pleasant minutes, he can no longer keep his thoughts at bay.

'I don't want to go back.'

The words slip out of their own accord, so quietly that, for a moment, he can almost pretend he never spoke at all. Then:

'Back where?'

'I thought you were asleep,' Stiles huffs.

'Not really,' says Derek. He rolls over, smiling softly, and Stiles's heart just about stops, he's so damn beautiful. 'Just naming galaxies.'

'Galaxies, huh?' he says, unable to keep a note of pride from creeping into his voice.

'Galaxies,' Derek agrees. He raises a hand, thumb stroking gently across Stiles's cheek. 'Back where, Stiles?'

He sighs. 'The hospital. When it happens, I don't – I don't want to go back there.'

'So we won't go back,' says Derek. 'Your friends will understand.'

'I know, I just... god, this is so fucked up.'

'It's not your fault.'

'And yet.'

Stiles shuts his eyes, leaning into Derek's touch, the silence broken only by their breathing.

'Next weekend,' Derek says, suddenly.

'What?'

'Next weekend. If you're not, uh. If you're free, if you still wanted to, we could maybe, uh. Zoo?'

Stiles's eyes spring open. Derek's cheeks are pink, and the effect is so adorable that Stiles actually laughs.

'Yes, you dork,' he says, kissing the tip of Derek's nose. 'We can go to the zoo next weekend. It's a date.'

Derek's smile goes from small to beaming, and Stiles doesn't know which of them is the instigator; only that they're kissing again, deep and sweet and lazy, Stiles's hand curled over Derek's hip. There's nothing hurried about it; neither of them is ready to go again, which is, somewhat paradoxically, more thrilling than if they were. It's kissing for its own sake, as a excuse to touch and be touched, and right now, Stiles craves it only slightly less than he craves oxygen.

'We should clean up,' Derek says eventually. 'I'm all sticky.'

'True,' says Stiles, and sighs. 'Plus, as much as I'd love to lie around naked, we should probably put pants on, just in case Scott shows up.'

They climb out of bed and head for the shower, Stiles feeling only slightly weird about their casual nudity. His night on the floor notwithstanding, he and Scott generally try to keep from seeing each other's junk, and it feels strangely transgressive to walk naked through his own apartment in the middle of the day, let alone with company. The last person he was so unguarded with was Danny.

He freezes at the realisation, his hand on the shower tap. He trembles, and as though he can sense the reason for Stiles's hesitance, Derek turns the water on, his broad chest pressed to Stiles's back.

'You okay?' he murmurs.

'Yes. No. I don't know.' Stiles steps under the spray, pathetically grateful to be held. 'I just... it keeps hitting me, you know? I'm trying so hard not to think about it, not to think about either of them, but it's too big for that. I can't keep it out, and I feel like such an ass, because you, god –' he turns in the circle of Derek's arms, mouth suddenly dry, '– even when Allison was there, knowing who she was, you came in with me, you backed me up and brought me home –'

'Stiles, it was fine. She was perfectly nice –'

'You paid,' says Stiles, 'for two cabs and breakfast. _Two cabs_ , Derek!'

He shrugs, smiling slightly. 'So pay me back for half, if it matters that much.'

'That's not the point!' says Stiles, gesticulating in the confined space and narrowly avoiding breaking the soap dish. 'I mean, it kind of is, but it's also not what I'm getting at!'

'Which is?'

'Which is that I've known you for less than twenty-four hours, and you're still treating me better than anyone else I've ever been with!' Stiles shouts. 'And I don't know what to _do_ with that, okay?'

Derek looks stunned, and Stiles's outrage flees as quickly as it came. 'I'm sorry,' he whispers, smoothing a hand over Derek's chest. 'I just – I'm sorry. Please don't go.'

'I'm not going anywhere,' Derek says, and kisses the tips of his fingers.

There's a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of falling water. Then:

'It seems longer.'

'What?'

'Than twenty-four hours,' Derek says. 'It seems longer than that, since I met you.' He runs a hand through the wet spikes of Stiles's hair. 'It feels like I've always known you, somehow. And that you've known me.' The expression on his face is fragile, almost wondering. 'Stiles, you _saw_ me.'

Stiles's heart is beating so fast, he feels like a hummingbird. 'I see you now, too.'

The kiss is gentle, almost hesitant, and yet Stiles couldn't say which of them initiates it; only that it feels like a promise. Derek's hands cradle his face like he's something precious, pressing him back against the slick, warm tiles, and everything else falls away.

When they finally break apart, Stiles feels heat-dizzy, safe and soft. Wordless, he leans back against Derek, eyes slipping shut as the other man washes his hair, blunt fingers massaging expertly at his scalp. He returns the favour, smiling at the rumbling, almost-purr of pleasure Derek makes in response. Still silent, they turn off the water and step out, taking turns to pat each other dry. Stiles laughs as Derek scruffs his hair, then grabs the towel, loops it around Derek's neck and pulls him in for walking kiss, steering them both blindly back to the bedroom.

'Pants,' Stiles says, as Derek's hands roam over him in increasingly distracting patterns. 'Let there be pants.'

Derek chuckles, kissing his jaw. 'As commandments go, I've heard better.'

'Go tell it on the mountain,' Stiles says, and snags himself a clean pair of sweats from the open drawer of his dresser. 'Aha, see! My will be done!'

Derek smirks, trailing a teasing touch along his collarbone. 'On earth as it is in heaven,' he says, then bends down, grabbing his own clothes from the floor.

It's a distracting performance. Stiles watches with the appropriate degree of appreciation, pausing only to pull on a tee. It was dark red once, but successive washings have worn it soft, the colour faded to reddish brown. They're house clothes, the kind of thing he puts on when he's planning to spend the day on the couch, and that's when it hits him like a blow to the chest. It doesn't matter that they're not at the hospital; not really. He's still sitting a death-watch, waiting out the minutes or hours until Lydia calls and tells him Jackson's gone, and that – how the fuck is he meant to do it?

'Derek?' he says, voice sounding strange and faint.

'What –? Oh. Oh, hey. Come here.' Derek pulls him into a hug. 'Stiles, it's okay. There's no right way to do this.' He kisses his temple. 'You want to go sit down?'

Stiles nods, and Derek leads him out to the lounge room, settling on the couch. After a moment of fidgeting, they end up with both of them lying lengthwise, Stiles between Derek's legs, his arms wrapped loosely around him.

'I don't know how long it's going to take,' Stiles says, angrily. 'I hate that. I hate _him_. I hate him for doing this, for putting me through all his crap, I especially hate him for dying, and I hate myself for wishing he'd do it faster.'

Derek doesn't respond; just kisses behind his ear and shifts his weight, settling Stiles more fully against him. It's such a simple, considerate thing, it makes Stiles want to cry. Casting about for a distraction, he glances at the coffee table, where his secondhand iPad is charging.

'Hey,' he says to Derek. 'You said you keep your thesis and notes and stuff in Google Docs, right?'

'Yeah?'

Stiles nods at the iPad. 'You, uh. You feel like reading it to me?'

Derek inhales, then slowly lets out a breath. 'Sure,' he says, and Stiles can hear him smiling. 'Pass it here.'

 

*

 

Derek reads, and somehow, time dissolves. Stiles is a perfect warm weight against him, the two of them breathing in sync. He didn't think Stiles was really interested, figured he just wanted something to act as white noise, but he does listen; actively so. Even when he isn't responding, his soft voice querying a term or chuckling at a turn of phrase, Derek can feel his attentiveness like a current between them. Nor is he used to reading aloud – giving academic presentations usually makes him sweat – but here, he doesn't struggle, doesn't falter. He just reads: first his thesis draft in its entirety, occasionally pausing to tap out comments as he catches errors or thinks of a new idea, then his notes, and then, when Stiles still wants to hear more, he starts reading some of his source material, research papers and snippets of stories and newspaper articles, everything the iPad can access.

His throat gets dry, but there's a water bottle on the coffee table, and the first time he stops to cough, Stiles hands it up to him without missing a beat, keeping hold of the plastic so that Derek can drink moving the hand that's splayed across his hip. Stiles asks questions, too, and in between the research, somehow Derek ends up telling him more about his home, his family. They're all good memories, some he hasn't thought of in years, and as he talks about the time when Laura tied their Uncle Peter to the Christmas tree with a length of tinsel, a burden he didn't realise he'd been carrying lifts from his chest.

Stiles talks a little, too – about growing up with Scott, about his dad – and though Derek doesn't consciously decide to put the iPad down, the next time he looks, his hands are laced together over Stiles's belly, while Stiles himself is half-turned to face the back of the couch, his head nestled in the crook of Derek's arm.

Between one breath and the next, they fall asleep.

When Derek wakes again, he doesn't know how much time has passed; only that an unfamiliar sound has roused him. It's dark outside, though the apartment lights are still on, and when he tips his head to look back behind the rise of the couch, he sees a haggard-looking Scott, tailed by Allison Argent, standing beside the kitchen bench.

Scott blinks at the sight of him, tilting his head. _Stiles?_ he mouths, nodding towards the bedroom.

Derek gives a slight shake of his head and flicks his eyes down, indicating Stiles's location. _Here_ , he mouths back, and when Scott steps close enough to see for himself, his eyes go huge. He looks from Derek to Stiles and back again, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing, and then a slow, happy smile spreads over his face. But it only lasts a moment: the corners of his mouth turn down, and as Allison steps up beside him, her mascara clearly smudged, Derek realises why they've come. His stomach sinks, arms tightening reflexively around Stiles, who stirs and tries to roll over, pressing his face into Derek's shoulder.

'Five more minutes,' he mumbles.

'Stiles,' Derek says, and lifts a hand, brushing his sleep-mussed hair away from his face. 'Stiles, wake up. Scott's home.'

Stiles makes an unintelligible noise and eels himself up Derek's body, nuzzling at his neck. Given the circumstances, it ought to be embarrassing, but Derek can't bring himself to feel anything other than fond. He gently scratches the nape of Stiles's neck, bending to kiss his temple.

'Hey. Stiles. Come on, wake up. Scott's here.'

'Huh?' Stiles says, blearily. He blinks, his face scrunched up like an owl's, and levers himself onto his side. He squints at Derek, propping his weight on his arm. 'We fell asleep?'

'We did,' says Derek, 'and now Scott's here.'

'Scotty's what – oh!' says Stiles, and finally tries to rise. It's something of a difficult process, given how they've been lying together, but after a moment's confusion and several rearranged legs, they end up sitting side by side, Stiles knuckling at his eyes. 'You guys needed a break, huh?'

'No,' says Scott, his voice heavy. 'Stiles, Jackson's parents got in an hour ago, and they switched off his life support. He's – he's gone, dude. I know Lydia said she'd call, but I thought... I figured it would be better, if you heard it in person.'

Stiles freezes in place, throat bobbing like he's physically trying to swallow the news, and can't. 'Oh,' he says, softly. 'Oh.'

'I'm so sorry, Stiles,' says Allison.

'Well,' says Stiles, voice raw with emotion. His hands twitch in his lap. 'I guess that's it, huh? It's over. It's all over. I mean, it was already over before, he was never going to wake up, but now it's just...' His voice tapers off, shoulders hunching forward. He starts to rock on the edge of the couch, staring fixedly at a point to the right of the television. 'How's Danny holding up?'

'Not good,' says Scott, after swapping a glance with Allison. 'He pretty much broke down. The nurses gave him a sedative, put him in one of the beds. He's sleeping it off.'

'Lydia's, um, with Jackson's parents,' Allison adds. 'They wanted to talk to someone about... about what happened.'

'Right,' says Stiles. 'Right.'

His fingers are laced together so tightly, the knuckles are bleeding white.

Slowly, carefully, Derek reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder.

'Stiles –' he starts, but doesn't get any further. Stiles lets out a strangled cry, sliding from the couch to his knees. Derek moves with him, one hand shoving the coffee table out of the way, and suddenly Stiles is on him, arms twined tight around his neck as he gasps and shakes and sobs. Derek spares a brief glance for Scott – enough to register his shock – then hugs Stiles tightly, one arm wrapped around his back, the other raised to cradle his head.

'You're okay,' he murmurs. 'It's okay, you're okay. I've got you.'

Stiles grips on to Derek's shirt, pulling the fabric tight, but as his breathing evens out, he slowly lets go again. His sobs turn to hiccups, then peter out altogether, and when he finally sits up enough to look at Derek, his sudden, furious grief has run its course.

'I should call my dad,' he says, wiping his eyes. 'He never really liked Jackson, but he knew him, you know? I should tell him. Let him know.'

'You should,' says Derek, his own throat suddenly tight. 'I can – if I you want, I can go, give you guys some privacy –'

'No!' says Stiles, grabbing his wrist. His jaw works soundlessly for a moment, as though he's shocked by his own vehemence. He takes a breath, letting Derek go, then says, more quietly, 'I mean, I'm not – you don't have to stay, but I'd like – if you wanted –'

'I'll stay,' Derek says, and leans in, kissing his forehead. 'You go call your dad. I'll be right out here.'

'Okay,' says Stiles. He manages a watery smile, which Derek somehow returns, and then they help each other up, arms clasped. In the end, it's Derek who steps back, and Stiles who follows his lead, turning to face Scott. The two friends look at each other, then share a quick, tight hug.

'I gotta call my mom, too,' says Scott. 'We'll do it together, okay?'

'Yeah,' says Stiles, and with a final glance at Derek, he lets himself be ushered away to Scott's bedroom.

Which leaves Derek all alone with Allison.

A small, absurd part of him is afraid to even look her in the eye, as though she'll suddenly turn into Kate, but he makes himself do it anyway, because Stiles Stilinski is the best thing that's happened to him in he doesn't know how long, and Scott McCall is Stiles's best friend, and _that_ means Derek has to make an effort with Allison, because he can't and won't risk fucking this up.

'I know who you are,' says Allison, softly. She glances down, fiddling with her bracelets, then back up again, her expression a mix of strength and empathy. It helps that she looks nothing like her aunt: her eyes and hair are both a warm brown, where Kate was all cold greys and golds, like a frosty morning. 'I'm so sorry for what she did to you. For – for _everything_ she did.' She bites her lip, and Derek's heart skips at the emphasis. Allison _knows._

'It's not your fault,' he says. 'It's not anyone's fault but hers.' _And mine_ , a part of him whispers, but for all the spiteful inner voice is familiar, the accusation carries less weight than usual.

They fall silent, any awkwardness undercut by the distant murmuring of Scott and Stiles.

'You –' says Allison suddenly, then stops, like she's expecting Derek to leap in. When he doesn't, she says, hesitantly, 'How long have you been with Stiles?'

The question takes him by surprise. 'What time is it?' he asks.

'Nearly eight, I think. Why?'

'Less than a day, then,' Derek says, a fierce blush creeping up his neck. Said out loud, it sounds completely absurd. _Less than a day_ , as though there isn't a physical ache in his chest at the thought of Stiles being upset. 'We met at Lydia's party.'

Allison opens her mouth. Shuts it. Glances at Scott's bedroom door, then back to Derek again. ' _Less_ than a day,' she says, in a tone that suggests absurdity is catching. 'And you – you came to the hospital with him?'

'We were having breakfast when Lydia called.'

'Because you spent the night together.'

'Yes.'

Allison's gaze narrows. 'After Stiles had a panic attack at the party.'

'Yes, but we didn't – it wasn't – I mean, we have _now_ , but last night was just – we just –'

'Just what?'

'We went on a date, and then we shared a bed. No sex.'

'But you've had sex now?'

'Yes!' he snaps. 'God, would you just lay off? Believe me, I get how messed up this is, that he's going through all this crap and suddenly I'm just _here_ , I know –' he swallows, the admission thick in his throat, '– I know how this must look to you, like I'm taking advantage of him, but I'm not, I swear I'm not, I just – I just want him to be all right.'

Allison sucks in breath. 'I'm not accusing you of anything,' she says, carefully. 'Derek, I'm really not. And I know I have no right to be asking you invasive personal questions, that's not what I meant to do. I mean, clearly I _did_ do that, but it wasn't...' She tails off, seeming to steel herself, then says, in a pained voice, 'I knew what Jackson was doing to him. Before Scott did, I mean – we all know now, but at the time... I was out one night, I saw them arguing outside a club, and Jackson just backhanded him, split his lip right open. They didn't know I was there, and I just – I froze up. I couldn't even process it. Then Jackson stormed off, and Stiles got up and hailed a cab, and I thought, okay, I'll show up at the apartment tomorrow, and Scott will be totally _furious_ , we'll go with Stiles to help him file a police report, get a restraining order, whatever he needs – only then I got here, and the two of them were laughing about how clumsy Stiles is, how he always manages to hurt himself when he's drunk, and I didn't –' she lifts her jaw, trying and failing to hide the way it trembles, '– I didn't say anything. Not then, anyway. Not to either of them.'

Derek makes an educated guess. 'Lydia,' he says. 'You went to her instead.'

Allison nods tightly. 'I did. She knew some of what was happening, but Stiles wouldn't talk to her about it. He downplayed it, changed the topic, wouldn't give a straight answer. But the fact that he didn't tell Scott... they're basically brothers, you know that? They'd die for each other, but _Stiles hadn't told him_ , and I couldn't – god, I felt like the worst person in the world, but you read all this stuff about domestic abuse, how trying to force someone to get help when they're not ready can be really bad – you know that seventy percent of domestic violence murders happen after the victim leaves?'

A chill goes through Derek. 'I didn't know that,' he admits.

'Well, it's true,' says Allison, miserably, 'and I wanted, I wanted so badly to tell Scott what was happening, but I thought, if I did that before Stiles was ready, then maybe it would just push him back to Jackson, like he'd think we were ganging up on him, or else Scott would get so protective that he'd just go charging in, making things worse, and so I kept my mouth shut. I left it up to Lydia, and eventually Stiles got out. But even then, he never said how bad it had really been, and Lydia wouldn't tell me, because Stiles made her promise not to. So we didn't know. _I_ didn't know.' She takes a deep breath, looking him in the eyes. 'Until last night.'

Derek winces. 'Oh.'

Allison nods, shoving a strand of hair behind her ear. 'So,' she says. 'It's not that I don't trust that you're a good a person, because clearly, you are. I just... I need you to understand what a big deal this is, him letting you in like this, leaning on you. _Trusting_ you. I need to know that this isn't just you being a kind, compassionate person who only wants a fling, because if he needs help, I'm not going to freeze again, Derek. Not this time. He's been through enough already.'

Derek lets out a breath he wasn't conscious of holding. He moves closer to Allison, voice shaking only slightly, and says, 'His birthday is April 8th. His father's the sheriff of Beacon Hills, and his mother died when he was nine. When they were ten, he accidentally broke Scott's arm when they were swordfighting with Scott's dad's golf clubs, and to this day, their parents don't know that's what happened, because they lied so Scott wouldn't get in trouble. He likes Reece's pieces and the MCU, and he's thinking of switching to journalism.' He hesitates, then says, more quietly, 'Your aunt wasn't the only bad person who ever happened to me, Allison. Believe me, I don't want a fling, either.'

Allison's eyes go wide. She opens her mouth to speak, lips twitching in an almost-smile, but before she can say anything, Stiles and Scott reappear, their expressions grim.

'What is it?' Derek asks, suddenly anxious all over again. 'What happened?'

'Lydia called,' says Scott. 'Apparently, Jackson's parents want to see Stiles tomorrow.'

'And no,' says Stiles, voice heavy with sarcasm, 'they helpfully wouldn't say why. Though Lydia says she's pretty sure they know about the whole beating me up thing, so maybe there's going to be threats and hush money and fucking _scones_.'

'What did you tell them?' Allison asks, looking appalled.

Stiles barks out a laugh. 'What do you think? I told them yes. They just lost their fucking _child_ , Ally, and they have to go the rest of their lives knowing he was a cruel, abusive addict. That's punishment enough for anyone. I'm not going to be the guy who makes it worse.'

He comes to stand beside Derek, leaning against him, and it's the most natural thing in the world for Derek to put an arm around Stiles's waist. All of them are silent, contemplating the inevitable. Then:

'Fuck it,' Stiles says. 'I need a drink. And pizza. And music that doesn't want to make me stab things. If I'm going to have to spend the rest of the evening thinking about Jackson anyway, then let's do it properly. Let's have a wake. Remember the tolerable asshat he was in school, and not the far greater asshat he subsequently became. Shit, call Lydia back, get her over here, too. She'll come. Not Danny, though.' His voice cracks. 'Something tells me he's not up for it.'

'We can do that,' Scott says, smiling crookedly. 'Whatever you want, bro.'

Stiles looks at Derek, his expression somewhere between grief and hope. 'Can you stay?' he asks. 'I mean, will you?'

Derek cups his jaw and gives him a gentle kiss. 'Only if you pay for the pizza.'

Stiles laughs, twining their fingers together. 'Deal.'

 


	11. Chapter 11

The impromptu wake is, by turns, cathartic, maudlin, hilarious, distracting and interminable. Lydia brings the most expensive champagne she could find between her house and their apartment – 'Because if we're going to send the bastard off, we should at least do it right,' – and Scott orders all their favourite types of pizza. Allison brings up YouTube on the TV so they can take turns queuing trashy pop songs from previous decades, and Stiles lasts a surprisingly long time before he abuses the privilege and starts bringing up funny videos, too. By then, everyone is champagne-assisted enough to just roll with it, and after twenty minutes, Lydia dryly points out that it's a contextually appropriate shift in mood, because a YouTube party is the sort of thing Jackson would've vocally pretended to hate, but not-so-secretly loved. That quiets them all, a sense of pained nostalgia settling over the room in the lapse between videos, while Stiles – who knew better than any of them how petty Jackson could be about geeky things – looks desperately for a change in topic.

Then Derek pulls up The Bondi Hipsters singing The Life Organic, and Stiles laughs until he cries, because apart from being hilarious in its own right, it's also the most perfect caricature of Jackson that he's ever fucking seen, and being able to laugh about it feels like purging himself of something ugly.

'Oh my god,' he cackles, clinging on to Derek's arm. 'Oh my _god_ , dude. You're my hero right now, you know that?'

Derek smiles. 'I thought you'd like it,' he says, and gently rubs Stiles's back as he sob-laughs it out.

The party winds down around 1AM, when Lydia crashes out on the couch and Scott starts getting sleepy enough that Allison practically has to carry him to bed. Taking their exit as his cue, Stiles goes off to hunt up a blanket and pillow for Lydia, and when he comes back, he finds Derek tidying up the champagne bottles and pizza boxes.

'You don't have to do that,' he says, draping a crocheted rug over Lydia's torso. She makes a sleepy noise and obligingly lifts her head for the pillow, nestling happily into the couch.

'I'm being a good guest,' says Derek, neatly compacting a pizza box.

Stiles comes up behind him, plastering his chest to Derek's back. 'You're being a good everything,' he murmurs, kissing the nape of his neck. 'Now come spoon me until I pass out.'

Five minutes later, once they've each taken a turn in the bathroom, that's exactly what happens. Climbing naked under the (still slightly soiled) covers, Stiles tucks himself up against Derek's chest and tries, through the pleasant fog of semi-drunkenness, to articulate something important.

'Derek?'

'Mm?'

'Thank you. For being with me today, for – for everything.'

Derek chuckles, his breath warm against Stiles's neck. 'You're not exactly a hardship.'

'Still, though.'

'You're welcome, then.'

'It feels selfish of me, making you deal with all this crap. Like I'm having you jump through hoops just to hang out with me.'

'You're not selfish, Stiles. And there are no hoops involved.'

'It's just, I still have to get through tomorrow with the Whittemores. And the funeral, whenever it is. I mean, I'm not saying I'll go, but I'll still be thinking about it, you know? And that's not fair to you.'

'What's not fair?'

'That it's all about me. You're giving me so much, I don't want this to start out lopsided. I want to look after you, too.'

'You are,' says Derek, sounding surprised. 'You will.'

'I just,' says Stiles, then pauses, trying to get the thought in order. 'I just, with the whole dwarven crafts thing, I think we're both used to being the person who puts their partner first, who gives a lot but doesn't really get much back. And what you're doing right now, the way you're looking after me, that's more than I've ever had before, Derek. You're keeping me together. But I don't want to take it for granted. I'm _not_ taking it for granted. I need – I just need to tell you that I _know_ , okay? That I appreciate it. That I'm going to do the same for you. I don't want to just take from you, and I don't want you to feel like you have to give and give and give just to keep me happy. You're allowed to say no to stuff. I'm still going to want to be with you.'

Derek's grip on him tightens, his breath audibly faltering. 'Okay,' he whispers.

They share a quiet moment, warming against each other. Then:

'Stiles?'

'Mm?'

'Do you want me there tomorrow?'

'Yeah,' says Stiles, softly. 'Yeah, I do. But if you'd rather not –'

'I'll come,' says Derek. 'And not just to make you happy. I mean, I do want you to be happy, but I also want to be there. I kind of... I feel involved, now. Like I want to see how it ends. Which is stupid, I guess, but still –'

'It's not stupid,' says Stiles, burrowing back against him. 'You're not stupid.'

'Good to know,' says Derek, kissing his shoulder. 'Okay.'

Stiles smiles in the darkness. 'G'night, Derek.'

'Night.'

For the fourth time in slightly more than a day, they fall asleep holding each other, and Stiles's last muzzy thought before unconsciousness hits is that it probably means something.

 

*

 

Derek doesn't quite wake when Stiles heads to the bathroom at what feels like ass o'clock in the morning, but he certainly stirs when he gets back into bed and cats up against him, all warm limbs and lazy, questing mouth. His cock takes an interest more or less instantly, prompting Stiles to chuckle appreciatively.

'Someone's up early.'

Derek grins, but doesn't open his eyes. 'You were up first.'

'What can I say? My libido's a lark.'

'This libido of yours,' says Derek, palming the smooth skin of Stiles's ribs. 'Does it have any specific ideas as to how we might start the day?'

'Well,' says Stiles, fingertips teasing his thigh, 'it was kinda hoping you'd hold me down and fuck me like you mean it, but I'm open to suggestions.'

Derek groans, coming fully awake as he grabs Stiles, kissing him deeply. Stiles makes a pleased noise, rutting against his hip, and if there's a better way to wake up than this, Derek's yet to encounter it.

'Here's a suggestion,' he says. 'Why don't you pass me the lube?'

'I _like_ this idea,' says Stiles, and leans over to the bedside table, fishing out both the bottle and a condom. He drops both items on Derek's chest with a cheeky grin, then rolls right over onto his belly, head pillowed on his arms and legs spread in invitation.

Shoving back the covers, Derek takes a moment to savour the sight before kneeling between Stiles's thighs, running eager hands over the tapering, muscled stretch of his back. Resting his weight on one hand, he leans over Stiles and murmurs into his ear, 'You want it like this? Flat on your stomach?'

'Yeah,' Stiles says, a little breathlessly. 'Want to see if I can come just from you fucking me into the mattress.'

'Christ,' Derek groans, cock jerking in anticipation. 'Yeah, we can do that.'

Pulse jumping, he kisses his way down Stiles's back, then grabs the lube with one hand as he parts his cheeks with the other. Stiles gasps as Derek works a digit into him, hips pressing urgently down against the bed. Part of Derek wants to go slow and savour it, but the rest of him is burning with a heady mixture of lust and need, intoxicated by the fact that he gets to have this at all. He works up to two fingers, scissoring Stiles open, loving how responsive he is, and has barely added a third when Stiles puts his arms up, grips the top edge of the mattress and pants, 'Now, I'm ready now, _fuck_.'

Rolling on the condom, Derek slicks himself up and leans forward, holding himself on one hand while guiding himself in with the other. The angle makes it a tighter, trickier fit than would otherwise be the case, and Stiles outright moans as Derek sinks home, hips jerking abortively against the sheets. Derek stills, his whole body buzzing with pleasure, then leans over Stiles again, linking their fingers together one hand at a time. Stiles shudders beneath him, head tipped back and to the side, giving Derek access to his neck. Derek bites down gently, earning a shaky gasp – and then he starts to move.

Lacking the leverage to do otherwise, he goes slow, but there's a deep, satisfying drag to each thrust, his head bowed over Stiles's neck as he finds his prostate. Every shift of weight has them both gasping, and when Derek finally starts to pick up the pace, Stiles, who was hardly being quiet before, turns his head onside and pants his pleasure, the near-constant litany of _ahh ahh ahh_ sparsely punctuated by the occasional whimpered 'Oh, _fuck_.'

Their fingers curl together, sweat beading on both their backs. Stiles is coming apart beneath him, seeking friction against the sheets, his cries getting louder and longer, and what little composure Derek was still maintaining shatters completely. In a single motion, he leans back, taking more weight on his knees while pulling Stiles's hands down and out, forearms rigid as he fucks into him, fast and hard and deep. He's gasping, shaking with the strain of exertion and impending orgasm both, and then Stiles writhes against the restraint and _moans_ , a desperate, filthy sound as he comes, his muscles locking up. Derek lasts two more strokes before he falls over the edge in turn, his climax hitting him so hard, he barely remembers to keep from collapsing his full weight onto Stiles. Instead, he crashes down beside him, fingers spasming as they disentangle, one arm splayed across his boyfriend's back.

'That what you had in mind?' he says, any attempt at coolness ruined by how utterly wrecked he sounds.

'Better,' Stiles says, dazedly. 'Holy _god_.'

Something that sounds suspiciously like a thrown shoe thumps against bedroom wall. 'You guys had better be done fucking!' Lydia yells. 'You woke me up, you assholes! It's not even eight yet!'

Derek flushes; he'd completely forgotten they weren't alone in the house. Stiles, however, snorts into the mattress, turning his head to call out, 'Bite me, Lyds! It's my house!'

This time, it's Scott who answers, his pained tone evident even through the muffling of multiple walls. 'It's mine too, dude, and I _did not need to hear that_!'

'Me, neither!' Allison adds.

Derek buries his face in Stiles's shoulder, trying and failing to suppress a burst of inappropriate laughter.

'Your jealousy is noted!' Stiles shouts. 'Now shut the fuck up and let me enjoy the afterglow, or we'll go again!'

Derek lifts his head, unable to keep from joining in. 'I'm not affiliated with that threat!'

'The hell you're not,' says Stiles, at a normal volume. 'Besides, I'm totally bluffing. I don't think my legs even work.'

'Oh, thank god,' says Derek, nuzzling close. 'I thought it was just me.'

'No chance you'll carry me out of the wet spot, then?'

'Not a one.'

'Ugh,' says Stiles. 'Slacker.'

'Takes one to know one.'

'You're an ass, Derek.'

'Takes one to know one.'

Stiles snorts again, smiling dopily. 'I can live with that.'

'Yeah,' says Derek, grinning back. 'Me, too.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a shameless excuse to a) mention the Bondi Hipsters and b) write enthusiastic morning sex. I APOLOGISE FOR NOTHING.
> 
> Also, you totally need to listen to The Life Organic, which is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HR4n6OVoyYQ


	12. Chapter 12

In deference to the fact that there are three other people waiting to use the bathroom, Stiles and Derek shower together, though they sadly have to keep it PG for the same reason. All things considered, they're in and out pretty quickly, but when they emerge into the hall, towels wrapped around their respective hips, they're immediately confronted by an impatient Lydia.

'Took you long enough,' she snarks, though Stiles doesn't miss the way her gaze flicks appreciatively over Derek's naked and still-damp torso.

Derek, however, is too abashed to notice. 'Sorry,' he mumbles, ducking his head in a way that renders Lydia instantly contrite.

'I  _ suppose _ you're forgiven,' she says, and saunters past them, guest towel in hand.

'One down,' Stiles mutters, and sure enough, Scott and Allison are both ensconced on the couch, eating leftover pizza for breakfast. Derek flushes slightly as they look up, prompting Stiles to point a pre-emptive finger at his housemate.

'Not a word, Scotty.'

I didn't say anything!' Scott protests.

'Yeah, but you were going to. And  _ before you do _ ,' he adds, getting in ahead of him, 'you might like to consider that thin walls work both ways, and whereas I've been considerate enough to conduct the vast majority of my sexcapades in places that you're not, you guys get it on here  _ all the time  _ when I'm home. I have  _ heard things _ , Scott, and while I've been polite enough not to mention it, that doesn't change the fact that they can't be  _ un _ heard.' 

Scott's mouth falls open, while Allison turns a very bright shade of red. Derek makes a choking noise that sounds suspiciously like stifled laughter.

'You should've told us!' Scott splutters.

'Just did,' Stiles says, smugly. 'But all the same, I recommend you invest in some earplugs.'

And with that, he heads back into the bedroom, Derek close on his heels.

His ease disappears the instant the door shuts behind them, replaced by a creeping, queasy dread. Jackson being dead is like a scabbed wound scratched open: it's ugly and painful, but still halfway to healing, even if he'll always have a scar. But having to meet with Jackson's parents – having to look them in the eye and listen to whatever abuse or apologies they're going to offer him – that, he doesn't know how to deal with at all.

'Hey,' Derek murmurs, warm arms wrapping him from behind. He drops a kiss on the nape of Stiles's neck, then hooks his chin over his shoulder. 'You all right?'

'I don't know,' says Stiles. 'I don't know what I'm feeling.'

'You still want me to come with you?'

'Yeah. Please – I mean, if you still want –?'

'Of course,' says Derek, and kisses his nape again.

'Thank you,' Stiles whispers.

They stay like that for a minute, Derek holding him and Stiles letting himself be held. And then, because he'd rather just get it over with, he breaks away and starts getting dressed, the better to meet with Jackson Whittemore's parents.

 

*

 

Derek has never felt more like an interloper than he does now, standing with Stiles in the lobby of the excruciatingly posh hotel where Mr and Mrs Whittemore are staying. Being at the hospital was strange enough, but at least then, he'd been in as much shock as everyone else, albeit for different reasons. Here and now, though – Christ, it feels strange, and if it wasn't for the warm weight of Stiles's hand in his own, he'd be tempted to cut and run. But ever since they first locked eyes at Lydia's party, an encounter that feels like a lifetime ago now, he's barely been able to look away from Stiles, and deep down, in some nameless corner of his heart, he's starting to wonder if he ever will.

'Oh god,' says Stiles, and Derek squeezes his palm as he starts to tremble. 'They're going to shout at me, aren't they. Lyds, I can't, I can't – you gotta tell them I was sick or something, I can't do this –'

'If Danny can do it,' Lydia says, gently, 'so can you.'

Stiles freezes, shuts his eyes, and nods.

And that's the other thing: Danny is here already, upstairs with the Whittemores, and Derek doesn't know if that bodes well or not, but either way, it's one more thing for Stiles to deal with; one more potential avenue of hurt and guilt and grief.

'Let's get this over with,' says Stiles, and leads them into the elevator.

 

*

 

It would be easier, Stiles thinks distantly, if the Whittemores were angry at him. He's met David and Julia before, of course he has, though most of those meetings took place before he and Jackson were ever officially together, and he's never seen either of them look anything other than calm, composed, articulate. Now, though, they're whey-faced and shaky, eyes red-rimmed, and when he shuffles into their suite, flinching at the sight of Danny hunched in an armchair, the last thing he expects is for them to hug him, one after the other, Julia's whispered 'We're so sorry,' burning in his ears.

'I,' he says, and can't manage anything else; he sways back, leaning against the solidity of Derek's chest, not quite in his body as Lydia shuts the door. His gaze flicks to Danny again, which is a mistake; the guy looks _wrecked_ , the tear-tracks on his cheeks wet and fresh, and as he stumbles to his feet, he looks at Stiles like he's never really seen him before.

'I can't stay,' Danny says, voice hoarse. 'I can't hear it again.' And before Stiles can think of what the hell that means, Danny shoves past him – past Derek and Lydia – and lets himself out of the room.

An awkward silence falls. Stiles stares at the ground, still leaning against Derek.

'I know this is hard,' says Julia, softly. 'But there's something... we need to show you something.'

'Show me what?' Stiles asks.

'This,' says David, and picks up the DVD remote, gesturing at the flatscreen TV set against the far wall. 'It's from when he was in rehab.'

It takes Stiles a moment to process this. _A video. They want to show me a video of Jackson?_ He swallows, frozen, but Derek, thank god, seems to instinctively understand that Stiles isn't capable of moving. Instead, he gently grips his elbow and guides him over to the couch, sitting down beside him with their thighs flush together and one warm, muscular arm around his shoulders. Stiles leans into him, pathetically grateful for the contact, and whimpers when Derek whispers into his ear, 'If you need to go, just say, all right?'

'Sure,' Stiles says, the word barely more than an exhale.

As Lydia sits in Danny's vacated armchair, Julia leans back against the wall, thin arms hugging her stomach as David clicks on the DVD. It occurs to Stiles that, whatever they're about to show him, Danny must have seen already, and his stomach roils unpleasantly at the possibilities.

And then the video starts.

On the TV, Jackson steps back from what must be a free-standing camera and sits on the edge of a single bed, looking unusually skinny in a too-big singlet and faded shorts. He's pale, dark circles beneath his eyes, fingers jittering on his knees, but his skin is clear, and his voice lacks the manic quality that characterised his drug use.

'So, uh,' he says, looking down and away, 'they say I gotta, that I should, as one of the, uh, the steps, you know, that I should make a will. To make me think about what I'll leave behind if I kick it or whatever.' He huffs a laugh and looks dead at the camera, blue eyes sad, and Stiles lets out an animal noise, short and wounded.

Oblivious, Jackson's recorded self stares at the floor, jaw working as he draws a deep breath. 'They also said I can, uh. I can keep this private. Make it just for me, you know? Don't have to show it to anyone. So I can be... I can tell the truth.' He hugs himself, the posture eerily similar to his mother's current stance, his mouth curled unhappily. 'And the truth is... truth is, I don't remember half of what I did to Stiles, but the half I do remember... Jesus Christ, I ought to be locked up. Jail, not here. I ought to be locked up.' He starts rocking on the edge of the bed, his knuckles white. 'I don't think I raped him. I don't think I did, but I don't remember, I don't fucking _remember_ and I can't, I can't ask him, I can't –' he's crying, and Stiles cries watching him, thin tears on his cheeks, '– god, I'm so fucked up, I'm so – I love him, you know?'

He looks at the camera, bleak and broken. 'I always loved him. I thought I loved Lydia, but I didn't. Not like that, anyway. Not like him. Because I'm gay.' He almost laughs, gulps instead. 'I tried being bi, but it wasn't right. I'm gay. I've always been gay, and I never wanted it, I never fucking asked for it, but if I had done, it should've been Danny, I should've – he's right for me, you know? And I can be right for him, I know I can be right for him; we've always been friends, our parents get along, he wants the same things as me, and Stiles is just this, this annoying, difficult, frustrating, passionate idiot who can't even play a decent game of lacrosse, all right? He was a loser at school, he's still a total dork now and I just, I shouldn't, it doesn't make any damn sense –

'– and I love him. I wish I didn't. God, it would be so much easier if I didn't. Better for him. He never deserved me, because I never –' he sucks in a sharp breath, scrubbing a wrist across his eyes, '– Christ, I never deserved him. All I did was hurt him. All I've ever done is hurt him. Tried to make him someone I couldn't want, because I can't be like him, I _couldn't_ , only it didn't work, but Danny... I can be good for Danny. So.' He stills a moment, gathering himself, then looks up again. 'I'm gonna live for Danny. He's what I need, what I should want. He's what I _do_ want. I deserve him –' and there's a flash in his eye as he says it, that classic spark of determination that always meant he was going to get his way, '– and I'll make it so he deserves me. If I live. As I live. But this, whatever, this bullshit –' he flaps a hand at the camera, '– this is for if I die, right?'

For a moment, Jackson looks angry, defiant – every inch the classic, spoiled, rich brat – and then the bravado bleeds away, and all he looks is scared. 'And if I die,' he says, much softer than before, 'Stiles gets everything. Whatever's left, anything I have, assuming I haven't fucked it all to hell –' a short, bitter snort of laughter, '– he gets what's left of me. Not because I hurt him; I can't – it's not a bribe, I can't ever pay him back for what I did, there's no apology – I'd give it to him now if I thought it would matter, but he's weird about shit like this, you can't just _buy_ Stiles Stilinski.' He says it with angry wonderment, like he can hardly conceive of such a person. Almost, it comes out fond. 'But I know he's got student loans, and his dad doesn't earn that much, and he's not – he's proud, but he's not stupid. I can't make it up to him. It's not about that. But it's all I can do, so I'm doing it. Being of sound mind and body, this is my last living will and testament, and if I die, then everything goes to Genim 'Stiles' Stilinski.'

And then Jackson nods to himself, just once, and shuts the camera off.

 

*

 

Derek can barely breathe, the silence feels so thick. His own heart is pounding at the rawness, the ugliness of it all, and he didn't even know the guy. Lydia looks like a statue, white and still as marble, but under the shelter of his arm, Stiles is shaking violently, crying without sound. His hand spasms onto Derek's leg, long fingers digging in as he grips hard, and when Derek looks at him, he sees Stiles mouth the words _dwarven crafts_.

Heart twisting, he nods once and kisses Stiles on the forehead, keeping him squeezed close as he stands them both up.

'We're going,' he says, proud of the fact that his voice doesn't shake. 'The details can wait.'

To his credit, neither of Jackson's parents argue; the father just nods, like he didn't expect anything else, while the mother moves aside to let them both past.

'I'll stay,' says Lydia, suddenly. Derek turns to look at her, taking in the firm set of her mouth, her flushed cheeks. 'I'll be all right.'

He nods, not trusting himself to answer, and starts walking again, Stiles stumbling along beside him.

When they reach the door, however, it's Stiles who stops and turns, his big eyes wet as he looks at Jackson's parents.

'He didn't rape me,' he says, the words soft and cracked. 'He did a lot of things, but never that. Never that.'

And then he turns away, curling once more against Derek's shoulder.

They leave to the sound of Mrs Whittemore sobbing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LONG LAST, AN UPDATE!
> 
> I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this out! I got caught up writing other things as well as swamped with IRL stuff, but we're really close to the end now, and I promise to get it done :)


	13. Chapter 13

 The journey home is a blur. Stiles is dimly aware of entering and exiting the cab; of running into Scott and Allison outside his building, mute as Derek tells them what happened; of being led inside. It's not until they're alone in his room that he fully comes back to himself, Derek worriedly cupping his cheeks.

'Stiles? Are you here? Are you all right?'

'Yeah,' he rasps. His voice feels raw, disused. 'Yeah, I'm here.'

Derek makes a weak noise of relief and pulls him into a hug, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. 'Tell me what you need,' he murmurs. 'Whatever you need, anything –'

'You,' says Stiles. 'I need you.'

Derek doesn't so much still as cling to him a little tighter, fingers buried in his hair. 'Okay,' he breathes, and kisses Stiles's temple. More hesitantly, he says, 'You want me to run us a bath?'

Stiles makes a needy noise of assent, face still smushed into Derek's chest, and Derek chuckles, giving him a final squeeze before stepping back.

'Come on, then,' he says, and leads Stiles into the bathroom.

As Derek runs the water, Stiles finds the energy to undress. When they finally climb in together, the water almost sloshes over the top of the tub, they're taking up so much room, but as Stiles leans back against Derek's chest, he doesn't care if the whole house floods, so long as he doesn't have to move. He washes the tears off his face with a handful of warm water, then laces his fingers together with Derek's, and for almost ten minutes, they sit in silence, breathing in gentle unison.

'I'm taking the money,' Stiles says, finally. He feels wrung out, like part of his brain's been processing Jackson's video even while the rest of him has done its level best to think about nothing at all, and a weird sort of equanimity settled on him at the pronouncement. 'Not for me. For my dad, you know. Jackson was an ass, but he wasn't wrong about that.'

'A broken clock is still right twice a day,' says Derek, kissing Stiles's shoulder.

Stiles laughs weakly. 'Yeah,' he says. 'Something like that.'

Derek shifts minutely behind him, and Stiles moves in tandem, sighing as the water laps at his chest.

'He thought he loved me,' he says, and it hurts, but like a thorn pulled free instead of one going in. 'God, he thought he loved me, but he hated himself for it; he hated himself, and he took it out on me. That's so fucked up, you know? And god, poor Danny. Having to sit through that, from his perspective... Christ. But Jackson, love _me_? It doesn't make any damn sense.'

'It makes a little sense,' says Derek. 'You said he liked to be in control? Type-A achiever?'

'Yeah, he did. He was.'

'Well, you're everything he wasn't.' Derek's voice is soft. 'You're kind, compassionate, comfortable in your own skin. You impress people by being yourself, not by pretending you're other than what you are. You're funny and smart and you wear what makes you happy, not what someone else says is fashionable. You've got purpose in your life, but you don't have a chip on your shoulder about needing to win. You're everything Jackson wasn't,' he says again, punctuating the repetition with a kiss behind Stiles's ear. 'And opposites attract.'

'Oh.'

'Yes, _oh_.' Derek kisses him again. 'He wanted to choose who he loved, and he couldn't. No control. So instead of dealing with it like a rational adult, he decided to be an abusive, cruel, manipulative asshat. He didn't like that he loved you, so he made you feel like nobody ever could. But the truth is, Stiles –' Derek's breathing hitches a little, pulse ticking up so sharply, Stiles can feel it through his ribs, '– you – you're easy to love. Extraordinarily easy, because you're extraordinary. And from what I've seen of your friends, of Jackson and Danny... I think the only way for someone not to love you is to hate themselves instead.'

The words rush through him like stars, a twisting warmth in his belly that has nothing to do with the bath. Slowly, so slowly, Stiles turns in Derek's arms, shifting until they're face to face. Derek looks flayed open, eyes bright, lips parted on a half-drawn breath, and in that moment, he's the single most perfect thing that Stiles has ever seen. Something internal clicks into place, like a missing piece come home.

'Derek,' he says, unable to keep the shaky hope from his voice, 'are you – what are you saying?'

Derek touches two fingertips to Stiles's cheek in something almost like wonder. 'I'm saying,' he says, and stops, palm sliding to cup his jaw. He inhales, tries again. 'I'm saying that I... I think I've been waiting for you.'

Stiles feels the smile spread over his face, a little like joy and a lot like love. 'You found me,' he whispers, and kisses him.


	14. Epilogue

 

When Derek finally makes it back to his own apartment, Erica practically falls all over herself apologising. She looks as guilty as he's ever seen her, and for once in his life, Derek doesn't take advantage of her contrition. Instead, he pulls her into a hug – she tenses, surprised, then tentatively returns it – and says, 'We're good, Erica. You might want to apologise to Stiles, but you and me, we're good.'

'Oh, thank god,' she says, and squeezes him hard. 'Does that mean I get a gossip update?'

Derek flushes. 'Maybe,' he says, and manages to hold out an unprecedented ten minutes before cracking.

Within a week, word gets around that the two most promiscuous guys on campus are not only off the market, but dating each other. There's even a betting pool on how long they'll last. When Derek confronts her about it at the next group party, Erica swears up and down she's not the one responsible, and Derek eventually believes her, but only after he catches the look of smug satisfaction on Lydia's face.

'Lyds,' says Stiles, who doesn't miss it, either. 'Tell me you didn't.'

'I admit nothing,' says Lydia airily, buffing her nails on her sleeve.

(Six months later, she shows up to a party in honour of Stiles and Derek's half-year anniversary wearing a brand new dress tailored to match an equally brand new pair of Manolo Blahniks, which she refers to as her People Are Stupid And Fiscally Irresponsible outfit. 'As if I'd bet against you guys,' she scoffs, when Stiles comments on it. 'Even if you weren't crazy about each other, I've heard you guys fucking. Sex that good is worth a year at _least_.' Stiles cackles and high fives her; Derek chokes on his beer.)

Their first proper fight happens three days later, sparked – of all things – by a discussion of about whose parents they're going to visit for Thanksgiving vs. Christmas. Derek storms out of Stiles's apartment and spends a miserable three hours curled up under his comforter, convinced he's managed to ruin the single best thing that's ever happened to him over holiday plans.

When his bedroom door creaks open, he assumes it's Erica coming to check on him again.

'Go away,' he mumbles, shoving his face in the pillow. 'I don't want to talk about it.'

The bed dips under a new weight, and before Derek can register what's happening, Stiles climbs in with him under the comforter. He's wearing a singlet and boxers, and there's a pint of salted caramel ice cream in his right hand, along with two spoons.

'I'm sorry,' he says, while Derek gawks at him. 'I was being an ass. We can do both sets of parents both times; screw the extra driving. You're worth it. _We're_ worth it.' Shyly, he shifts onto his side and proffers the ice cream. 'Apology snack?'

Derek is on him like lightning, kissing Stiles deeply, shuddering when they pull apart.

'I love you,' he whispers, forehead pressed to Stiles's shoulder.

Stiles laughs and hugs him, nipping affectionately at his jaw. 'Love you too, big guy. Now, are we gonna eat that ice cream, or what?'

'Or what,' says Derek, and starts to kiss his way down Stiles's chest.

'Oh,' says Stiles faintly, 'oh, fuck, _Derek_ –'

They let it melt.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! I'm sorry I took so long to wrap things up - I'd flirted with the idea of making this a much longer fic, but in the end, this felt like the right place to draw the curtain.Thanks for your patience, and for reading! :)


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